Edge of War

Greene Urges Patience on Economy

Washington (AP-Fox News) — Sounding a theme he has used since taking office, President Greene told a press conference today that he is confident the economy will rebound soon.

“Sooner, not later,” said Greene. “But we must be patient.”

Greene made the remarks during a press conference called specifically to discuss the situation in Southeast Asia, where Vietnam has attacked China in a dispute over borders. However, not one reporter asked a question about the conflict; the economy took center stage…

Solar Panel Blouses Turn Up Heat

Paris (NBC-Agence France-Presse) — With wearable solar panels all the rage, three French designers today unveiled a new line of shoulder-board blouses they say will power MP3s and cell phones for up to 12 hours.

They’ll turn up the heat as well, with plunging necklines and see-through fabric that leave little to the imagination…

1

“Frost needs you right away,” said Dickson Theodore, sticking his head through the door of the Oval Office. “Line three.”

President Greene smiled at Cindy Metfort, the MSNBC reporter who’d been interviewing him. “I really do have to take this call.”

“I don’t mind.”

Greene kept smiling. He didn’t care much for MSNBC, but Cindy was… an impeachment waiting to happen, probably.

“I know it’s really late, but I’m afraid I’d like to take this one alone,” he said. “Maybe we can wrap this up tomorrow or sometime next week.”

He winked at his assistant press secretary, Debra Scacciaferro. Scacciaferro was already at the reporter’s side, ready to physically remove her if necessary.

That wasn’t necessary, probably to Scacciaferro’s chagrin. She wasn’t a big booster of the cable networks.

“Of course, Mr. President,” said Cindy, rising. “Tomorrow or next week will be fine. I hadn’t realized how late it was myself.”

Greene watched her leave. Ah, to be twenty years younger… then he’d only be old enough to be her father.

The president picked up the phone. “This is the president.”

“We have them,” said the head of the CIA. “They’re en route to the Philippines.”

“All of them? The little girl, too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Great.”

“There’s one thing you should know, George,” said Frost. “Peter Lucas had his people set up something with the captain of USS McCampbell. The destroyer sailed past a pair of Chinese ships and sent a helo through the blockade. There was almost a collision, but no shots were fired. I stand behind Peter one hundred percent,” added Frost. “He did what I would have done.”

“Then congratulate him,” said Greene. “And get me the name of that destroyer captain. I want him promoted.”

2

Josh felt as if a blanket had been thrown over him. His whole body vibrated, and not just from the rotating rotors above the Seahawk. He slipped back on the bench at the side of the helicopter, still stunned and unable to process everything that had happened.

A Navy corpsman was working over Kerfer on the floor. He had an IV bottle and was poking at his chest. He reached into a box and took out a syringe, then plunged it into the SEAL commander’s rump.

Mara stood over the corpsman, watching. Eric was next to her, his face white.

“What happened to Squeaky?” Josh asked.

No one answered.

“Squeaky,” he said. He looked at Mara.

“No, Josh,” she said. “He and Little Joe are dead.”

Josh exhaled slowly.

“We didn’t get them out of there,” said Stevens loudly. “We should have gotten them out of there.”

“We needed to get ourselves out,” said Mara.

“We should have gotten them the hell out of there.” Stevens whirled and put his fist into the frame of the helicopter. He punched it hard, then punched again. Tears streamed down the sides of his face.

Josh stomped his feet, sharing Stevens’s anger and frustration. He’d liked both of the SEALs, Squeaky especially — a big bear of a guy with a stupid little girl’s voice.

“Damn,” he said, pounding the floor.

Mạ grabbed his side in fright. The medic looked up at him. One of the Navy crewmen put his hand on his shoulder.

“Sir,” said the sailor. “Please. Calm down. You saved the chopper. You did your best.”

“I didn’t save the chopper. My friends — they died. They died for me.”

“You killed the gook with the grenade launcher,” said Eric. “You couldn’t’ve done any more.”

Stevens came over and wrapped his arm around him. Neither of them spoke.

The medic continued to work on Kerfer. He had gauze and bandages and tape.

Did he have magic? Josh wondered. Because that’s what they really needed — magic to get them the hell out of here, to take them back, far back.

He’d killed the gook with the grenade launcher. Or he’d killed a gook.

A gook?

Or a human being?

Someone who was trying to kill him. That’s whom he’d killed. Someone who wanted him dead.

“It was a girl,” said one of the crewmen.

Josh looked up at him.

“We got it on the chopper video. It was a woman.”

“I killed a girl?” Josh asked. He sat on the bench. Mạ sat close beside him.

“You saved our lives, Josh,” said Mara. She came over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

3

There is but one purpose. There is but one Way. To forget this truth is to forget yourself. To forget yourself is to surrender to the chaos.

The words of his mentors came to Jing Yo in the fading beat of the helicopter’s rotors. They were fact and recrimination, accusation and inspiration, a call to return from the path where he had strayed.

Hyuen Bo was dead, killed by the man he had pursued. Her death was Jing Yo’s fault, as surely as if he had put the bullet through her skull himself.

Her long dark hair, the white skin of her wrist — the image burned into his brain. But already the stench of death had claimed her, the smell of rot and return.

He despaired.

There is but one purpose. There is but one Way. To forget this truth is to forget yourself. To forget yourself is to surrender to the chaos.

“I must move myself,” he said aloud.

In the next instant, Jing Yo jumped to his feet and began to run. He fled across the field, across the road and through a yard, down the soft green fairways, over the rocks and to the boat. He moved so fast that his conscious thoughts trailed far behind, outpaced.

By the time his brain caught up to his body he was an hour upstream, nearly out of gas. He found a small marina and would have stolen fuel had a man not appeared on the dock and offered to sell it.

“You look battered,” said the man. “Were you in the shelling?”

Jing Yo blinked at him, handing over his spare gas cans.

“There are rumors that the Chinese attacked the shore,” said the man. “Missiles and artillery from ships. Did that happen?”

“There was an attack,” said Jing Yo.

“Where are you going? Saigon?”

“I don’t know.”

“There have been attacks there as well. You’re better off in the highlands. They are forming bands of resistance. A young man like you would be of some worth.”

“That’s where I’m going,” said Jing Yo, not sure what else to say. “To the hills. To fight.”

“I thought so,” said the man grimly.

He gave him the fuel for free, then pressed him to take some food and a few thousand dong.

“We are counting on you,” said the man, tears in his eyes. “Go with our prayers.”

A half dozen plumes of black spiraled from the center of Ho Chi Minh City. Above them, thick piles of black cotton seemed pasted on the sky. A Vietnamese gunboat sat in the middle of the river channel, its gun raised and slightly off center. There were half as many small boats on the river as normal, and their movements seemed slow and tentative, their owners skittish.

A policeman stood on the first dock Jing Yo passed. There was one on the second as well. Jing Yo continued up the waterway until he found a jetty where no one was waiting to ask questions.

He had the submachine gun and a half dozen rounds of ammunition in a rucksack. If questioned he planned to say he had been given them by a friend in the militia, for protection; he had no idea if this would be an adequate explanation.

Soldiers and police guarded the intersections and patrolled in front of storefronts, even in Chinatown. Knots of militia clustered around trucks or kept the curious from smoldering ruins. Last night’s marauders had returned to become the day’s order keepers. Some were cleaning up the mess they or their comrades had made — Jing Yo passed two work crews of militiamen sweeping glass from the streets and replacing broken windows with large sheets of wood.

They were acting under orders, he was sure. Which would last longer — their hatred for the Chinese, or their respect for authority?

Getting into the area where Ms. Hu lived was not easy. Jing Yo had to circle around the center of the city on foot. There were several places where he might have slipped across the barriers to take a shortcut, but he decided the risk wasn’t worth it. The police were not bothering people who went about their business, so long as they didn’t go where they weren’t supposed to. And Jing Yo knew that the less he had to explain to anyone, the less chance he had of being apprehended.

The bicycles and motorbikes were still relatively plentiful on the streets. Their riders seemed more anxious than even on the day before, less willing to yield to pedestrians or change their course as another vehicle approached. Private cars, always a minority in the city, were almost nonexistent, as were commercial trucks.

Jing Yo walked through the precincts of the city, absorbing not just the sights and sounds, but the jittery emotions of the people. They moved mostly with purpose, not meandering — he guessed they were getting things in order, buying food and water for a siege, making sure they had batteries and other emergency supplies. He saw no one smiling.

The missiles and bombs had brought a powdery, metallic smell to the air, something close to fire and yet not completely burned. The sun was bright, and the damp air hot.

Three men in Western jeans and soccer shirts leaned against an old pickup truck on the dirt road near the fuel tanks around the corner from Ms. Hu’s compound. Jing Yo walked toward them, his gaze fixed in the distance. One of the men stepped toward him, hand on the back of his hip. A bulge on the opposite side of his belt betrayed his revolver.

“I have business with Ms. Hu,” he told the man.

“Ms. Hu? I don’t believe we know of a Ms. Hu.”

“Oh,” said Jing Yo, easily guessing this was a lie.

He took a step forward. The man stepped in front of him.

“Listen, friend,” said the man. “This is not a good place for you.”

“Nonetheless, I have business,” Jing Yo told the man.

If the man had gone for his pistol, Jing Yo would have killed him on the spot. He would have made short work of the others as well.

In truth, he thirsted for provocation. He wanted to unleash some of the anger he felt. But instead of fighting, the man took out a small radio.

“Your name?” asked the man.

“Jing Yo.”

Whatever the person on the other side said surprised the man.

“Go on,” he told Jing Yo, holding both hands up as if in surrender.

Ms. Hu was in her garden. It was as if nothing had happened.

“Sit, please,” she told Jing Yo.

“I have no need to sit. Your man tried to kill me. He has met with a regrettable end.”

“So I understand.”

“I require transportation to complete my mission.”

“Where to?”

“To America, I assume.”

While Sun had told him otherwise, Jing Yo suspected that Ms. Hu had either ordered the killing herself, or at a minimum had passed the order on from his commander or Beijing. He knew that he could not trust her, just as he could not trust anyone now, not on his own side or the enemy’s. Indeed, the enemy was more reliable than his friends, for the enemy’s motives were clear and unchanging. By contrast, those belonging to Colonel Sun and Ms. Hu were much more difficult to fathom.

“You think that I can arrange passage to America,” said Ms. Hu. She had the tone of someone making a statement, not asking a question.

“Whether you personally can do it, I could not say.” Jing Yo stared at her face as he spoke, fighting the urge to turn his eyes downward. “But I know it can be done. And I know that my mission has been ordered from the highest authority.”

Ms. Hu took the tiniest sip of tea from her cup.

“You are very stoic,” she told him after returning the cup to the table. “And brave to trust me.”

“I don’t trust you,” said Jing Yo.

“If I tried to kill you once, why would I not try again?”

“If it is my time to die, so be it. You are not the keeper of my fate.”

“You have surrendered to your religion, Jing Yo,” said Ms. Hu. “Is that wise for a commando? To trust to superstition? Obviously the monks didn’t — if they did, they wouldn’t have trained in kung fu. They would have remained in their monastery, praying, those many centuries ago.”

“There are many forms of prayer,” replied Jing Yo.

“It is useless to debate you.” Ms. Hu smiled for the first time. “The monks have taught you all the answers.”

“No answers. Only questions.”

“Trusting me is a way of testing your faith,” said Ms. Hu pointedly. “If I do not kill you, you will assume that your beliefs are correct. You will think that you are a warrior, following the Way, and that the Way calls you to this mission.”

Jing Yo remained silent.

“So you believe I betrayed you,” said Ms. Hu, “and ordered you killed?”

“It is the most logical conclusion.”

“Have you considered that Mr. Tong betrayed us both?” asked Ms. Hu. “He saw killing the American as a way to advance beyond me. You were in the way.”

“What happened does not matter to me,” said Jing Yo. “Only the present is of interest. I seek only the means to complete my duty.”

“You have done a favor for me, eliminating the viper,” said Ms Hu. “Whether you knew it or not. I will see what I can arrange. Go back to the house where I sent you last night. Be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

4

The encounter between the McCampbell and the Chinese ships was now being seen around the world, thanks to the Chinese news service, which wasted no time presenting high-definition video to every news organization it could think of, as well as posting a variety of snippets on YouTube. In the Chinese version of things, the American had been aggressive and then turned away; and indeed, from the way the video was edited, it did appear that way.

The American version — much longer and unedited — gave a completely different perspective. Not only did it show the destroyer staying straight and true until after the frigate veered off, but it also caught three Chinese sailors basically running for their lives in the moment before the ships came close.

Greene especially liked that. He considered offering to pay for dry cleaning at a press conference to answer the charges, but decided that would seem a little too cheeky, even for him.

Unfortunately, many of the rest of the world’s leaders had a different response to the exchange than Greene did. The French and Italians wondered why the U.S. was provoking China. India was considering recalling its Washington ambassador for “consultations” — a step not even the Chinese had undertaken. The British prime minister was calling for “considered reflection” — clearly the prime minister was taking the Dalai Lama’s recent visit to London a bit too seriously.

The response that most unsettled Greene, however, came from the U.S. Congress. He expected the opposition to raise holy hell, and they did. Greene was being pilloried as a warmonger. His critics accused him of trying to pick a fight with China, possibly to get out of paying back American debts to the country. He wasn’t exactly sure how that was supposed to work, but in any event he wasn’t surprised. Given that during the campaign his opponents had likened him to Mussolini — ”not smart enough to be Hitler,” snarked several — he considered the present criticism from that quarter mild.

The screams from his own party were a different matter. The House majority leader was questioning whether the destroyer had been ordered to initiate the conflict. In the Senate, a dozen of Greene’s former allies were lining up behind Senator Grasso of New York, who had already scheduled hearings into the matter.

Those hearings could be a forum for the White House to make its case, if the president could bring Grasso around. But short of adding the senator’s face to Mount Rushmore, that wasn’t likely to happen.

Greene decided he had to at least soften him up a little. So he put in a call. And then a second one.

Grasso called back after the third.

“The Gulf of Tonkin,” said Grasso when Greene picked up the phone.

Greene rolled his eyes, but reminded himself that he would not be baited. “Senator. How are you?”

“George, you’re as transparent as a cheap hooker’s robe,” said Grasso.

“I hope you’re not basing that on personal experience,” said Greene.

“Johnson did the same thing in Vietnam — created an incident so Congress would give him carte blanche over the war. The Gulf of Tonkin. That is not happening here,” said Grasso. “Negative.”

“I assure you, Senator, the destroyer was severely provoked and acted with model restraint. A ridiculous amount of restraint. And it was quite a distance from the Gulf of Tonkin.”

“Cut the Senator crap, George. You and I have been around the block. I know a power play when I see it. Crude as it is. The tail wagging the dog.”

“What will it take for you to see that China is the villain?” said Greene.

“I don’t care if China is the villain. Frankly, I don’t give a crap about them. Or Vietnam. Especially Vietnam.”

“Neither do I,” said Greene.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Grasso. “Because a lot of people think this is psychological — some sort of payback for the people who protected you in prison.”

“Nobody protected me when I was a prisoner, Phil. They tortured me. There were no secret deals to keep me alive. It’s all been reported. But ask the men I was with if you don’t believe me.”

Grasso was silent for a moment, an unusual state for him. Greene hated to play the POW card, but he wouldn’t avoid it, either, especially when someone was spewing bullshit.

Part of him wouldn’t mind seeing the Vietnamese government — not the people — crushed as payback for what they’d done to him, and more important, to his friends. But as president, his personal feelings were beside the point. And they were, no matter what armchair politico-psychologists said in their blogs.

“You know, I think I can put the entire conflict in the proper perspective when I speak at the UN Friday,” said Greene.

“You’re still pushing for sanctions?”

“I think they’re inadequate, but we have to start somewhere.”

“You don’t have a single vote in the Senate in favor of them.”

Actually, Greene figured he had about three. But why quibble?

“Why don’t you come to the UN with me and listen for yourself?” said Greene. “Have lunch with me. Prime Minister Gray will be there. He’s always good for a few laughs.”

The invitation was supposed to flatter Grasso, who would be able to hobnob with world leaders as if he were one of them. But it seemed to fall flat.

“I have a very busy schedule,” said the senator. “I don’t think I can make it.”

“I think you’ll like what you hear.”

“I doubt it.”

“You have to be in New York anyway,” said Greene. “You’re going to the Governor Smith Dinner, right?”

“Yes.”

“So am I.”

Grasso didn’t respond. Greene guessed that his invitation to New York’s biggest political bash of the year — a charity dinner where all the top politicians and top wannabes attended — was a surprise and a challenge to Grasso.

He certainly hoped it was. It had taken quite a bit of arm-twisting to get it.

“Come with me to the UN,” Greene urged again. “It will be worth your while, I guarantee.”

“Do I get a copy of your speech beforehand?”

“You don’t have to endorse it.”

“I’d like to read it.”

“It’s not written yet, or I’d have a copy sent right over.”

“You’d better get your staff working. You only have a few days.”

“I’m writing it myself. So — can I count on you?”

“I’ll see if I can fit it on my schedule.” Grasso hung up.

Greene dropped the phone on the hook, wondering if it would not be a good idea to spray it with Lysol.

5

The Air Force crewman was almost comically respectful, hovering over Josh and Mara like a doting uncle caring for a pair of visiting newborns. When Josh got up to go to the restroom, the sergeant nearly leapt from his seat near the rear of the plane. “Is the baby okay?” he asked.

“She’s fine. She’s sleeping,” said Josh.

Mạ had been checked out by a corpsman on the destroyer and by a doctor in Thailand, where they’d landed to meet the Air Force transport. Everyone said she was in great health.

Physically. Given her age and what she had been through, her mental state remained unknown.

“So, can I get you something?” asked the sergeant.

“Just gotta use the head,” said Josh.

“Sir, by all means. Anything you need.”

When Josh came out, the crewman asked if he wanted some more coffee.

“Coffee’s going through me, thanks.”

“We have beers, sir.”

“That’s all right. Beer would put me to sleep.”

“The book okay?”

“I’m good.”

“Say the word. Anything you want.”

The sergeant had scrounged up some reading material from the base in the Philippines where the plane had refueled. The choices were an odd mix but included a classic by Patricia Highsmith, Strangers on a Train. It was an odd and twisted book: two men, thrown together, end up committing a murder for each other — one willingly, almost gleefully; the other as an act of strange desperation.

Thrown together by chance, to discover what they were made of? Or to discover the darkness every man is capable of?

Which was the author’s point?

Josh went back to his seat. Mara was sitting behind him. The small jet, a military version of a Learjet 85, with an extended range, was less opulent than a civilian corporate jet but still had such amenities as plush, fully reclining seats and video screens that rose from the cabin sides. The sergeant had snagged a half dozen movies, but they were all thrillers, and Josh was in no mood to see anything that might remind him of the real thrills he had just escaped.

“We’ll be down in a couple of hours,” said Mara. “You’ll be able to stretch your legs.”

“Then what?”

“Direct flight to Washington. Meet the president.”

Josh nodded.

“You up for it?” she asked.

“I guess. You think Mạ is?”

“She’s a tough kid,” said Mara. “She’ll make it.”

He peered over the seat to where the girl was curled up, sleeping. She was a tough kid. No doubt about that.

“Kerfer’s going to be okay,” Mara said. “I got a text from Bangkok. They heard from the fleet.”

“Good.”

“We couldn’t do anything about Squeaky and Little Joe.”

“I know.”

“The Vietnamese recovered their bodies. They’ll get home.”

“Do you do this stuff all the time?” he asked.

“Which stuff? Rescue scientists and eyewitnesses to massacres? No.”

“Don’t make fun of it.”

She reached her hand out and touched his leg. “I’ve seen death, if that’s what you mean.”

Josh nodded.

“The people who died, the people you shot — they were trying to kill you, Josh,” Mara said. “And her. Her whole family was wiped out. Her village. Everything.”

“I know.”

“That’s why war sucks. That’s why you have to tell the world what happened.”

Josh slumped in his seat. What about the soldiers in the train, he thought. What about them? Should we have killed them?

But he was too tired to ask the question. Way too tired.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Suddenly he felt Mara next to him, over him, her face next to his.

His heart leapt.

She reached to his side as he opened his eyes. He thought she was going to kiss him. He longed for it.

“You have to buckle your seat belt,” she said gently, slipping it together. “Before the sergeant does it for you.”

6

Peter Frost caught President, Greene’s sleeve as he stepped toward the tee. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“I’m a lousy golfer, Peter,” admitted Greene. “You think I should be using a five-iron?”

“I mean Vietnam. The Zeus plan.”

“Oh, and here I thought you were talking about something important.” Greene laughed and walked toward the ball. The laugh was a bit too sharp, he realized, but there was no way of taking it back, and he wouldn’t if he could.

“I’m serious, George,” said Frost.

Greene squatted down, as if inspecting the grass around the ball. He didn’t like golf, but had discovered that the game had various uses, the most important of which was allowing him to get out in the fresh air away from the constant pressure of the White House. It also gave him a way of talking with his aides and confidants — the press called them cronies — in a more relaxed atmosphere.

Golf was one of the benefits of climate change, at least from Greene’s perspective. A few years ago, February golf even in the Washington, D.C., area would have been a chilly affair. Global warming wasn’t all bad.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to hit,” said Greene, rising.

“What you’re doing is borderline legal,” said Frost.

“I don’t think there’s anything borderline about it,” said Greene. “As long as I hit the ball squarely. It goes down the middle of the fairway. No one will complain.”

“After the beating you’ve been taking all day, I’m surprised you’re willing to take the risk.”

“Not much of a beating, all things considered,” said Greene.

“Gulf of Tonkin? A thousand blogs have used the analogy.”

“Senator Grasso said that on the phone. Do you think he got it from them, or the other way around?”

“George — ”

“I like the Zeus plan,” said Greene, lining up the head of his club.

The CIA had obtained the missiles from Dubai and sold them, through a third-party government, to a South African company. The South African company was owned by a man who had once worked for the CIA but was now a private entrepreneur — a term favored over the less generous but better-known “mercenary.” The entrepreneur had hired an ex-Malaysian air force general to ship the weapons to Malaysia via his air freight company. The missiles were at this moment being loaded onto a pair of MiG-21s owned by a private company and leased to the Malaysian air force. There was paperwork indicating that the missiles were being tested as part of a feasibility program to see if the country should buy them, though it was hoped that such paperwork would never have to be reviewed.

The Malaysian general was Malaysian, but he was also on the CIA payroll, and had been for several years, pretty much since the beginning of the covert war there. Most of the technicians working on the plane were Americans under contract to the private company that owned the planes — a private company formed by an ex-CIA employee immediately on his “retirement” from the clandestine service. The two “test” pilots who would fly the planes were Australians, though neither could return to Australia without facing a variety of criminal charges.

According to the spec sheets, the MiGs themselves did not have the range to reach the target area, a slam-dunk argument against anyone who came up with a wild theory alleging that they had somehow been involved. What the spec sheets did not indicate was that both MiGs had been fitted with more efficient engines and conformal tanks that increased their fuel capacity.

The conformal tanks were modeled after those in the Stealth Eagle program, helping decrease the MiGs’ radar signature to the point that, with care, they would not be detected by even the American ships in the area, let alone the Chinese. Indeed, the MiGs looked very little like standard MiGs, with angled fins taking the place of the normal tail configuration, and nose extensions that would have made a plastic surgeon drool.

Greene, the former aviator, knew and loved all these details. Frost had passed them along, knowing he’d love them. It was also a way for Frost to cover his behind if the mission blew up in their face. Greene had no doubt that the CIA director would take the sword for him before a congressional committee, but when it came to writing his memoirs in a few years, a lot of blood would be on the floor.

Greene’s blood.

So be it. The way he figured it, he’d be senile by then anyway.

Greene whacked the ball. It flew straight down the fairway — for fifty yards. Then it began shanking hard to the right.

In the direction of the doglegged pin, as luck would have it. It cleared a rough, bounced over a trap — just — and plopped at the edge of the green.

“Better lucky than good,” said the president. Fie turned to the Secret Service detail and aides behind them. “We’ll walk.”

“Now I know you’re crazy,” said Frost. “Walking?”

“Come on, Peter. Do you good.”

The aides shot ahead. The Secret Service detail stayed a respectful, but watchful, distance behind.

“I got all the exercise I need forty years ago,” groused Frost. In actual fact, he was in as good a shape as the president — probably better, since he wasn’t feeding at the trough of so many state dinners.

“We have the finding indicating that American lives are at risk and have to be protected,” said Greene, addressing the legality of the action — such as it was. “I’ll hang my hat on that.”

“That’s a thin nail,” said Frost. “And more than your hat is resting on it.”

“This is nothing more than any president has done. Look at Reagan in South America. He fought a war there for years. Never had congressional support. Never went to them. What does posterity think about that?”

“That was against drug dealers, George. Nobody cares about drug dealers. Besides, it was Reagan. People loved Reagan. They don’t love you.”

“Ah. I have a depression to deal with,” said Greene. “I don’t expect them to be patting me on the back.”

“Stabbing you in the back isn’t a good alternative.”

Greene stopped. “Why so negative today?”

The president searched his old friend’s face. Ironically enough, they’d met back in Vietnam, both of them idealists in the process of being sharply disillusioned.

Greene’s naïveté had ended a few weeks later, somewhere around fifteen thousand feet, as he descended from his airplane and realized he was so far over Injun territory that he was going to end up either dead or a POW. He wasn’t exactly sure where Frost’s had run out.

“We always said that if we were running things, we would do what was right,” Greene told him. “No matter how we had to get it done. You know this is right — if we don’t stop China now, there’ll be a world war inside of five years.”

“There may be a world war anyway, no matter what we do.”

“I realize that,” said Greene. “I wish I could get the rest of the country to realize that. At the moment, I’ll settle for UN sanctions. And a congressional vote in favor of them. It’s a start. Where’s your damn ball, anyway?”

7

The jet’s engines suddenly grew very loud. Josh raised his head, then felt gravity slam it back against the seat. For a moment he felt weightless, and panicky. He’d been sleeping, and all he could think of was that they’d been shot down.

But no one was firing at them. They were in the States, safe, at least for now. The war was literally half a world away.

“Have a good dream?” asked Mara.

“Was I dreaming?”

“I guess.” She laughed. “You were mumbling something, and laughing.”

“Laughing?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” Josh couldn’t imagine what he’d been dreaming. All of his thoughts were dark, very, very dark.

“Where’s Mạ?” said Josh, seeing her seat empty.

“Behind you, coloring,” said Mara. “The sergeant had some markers.”

Josh leaned around the seat. Mạ was making pictures on a yellow pad. They looked like black, violent scribbles. She was very intent on what she was doing.

“We’re landing?” Josh asked Mara.

“Landing.”

The jet taxied to the far end of the base. It was night, and a foglike humidity clung to the runway, the lights’ yellow and white beams struggling against the moisture. Out the window, Josh saw a pair of F-22 fighters sitting at the edge of the parking area, their canopies open, security officers standing at attention.

The jet pulled to a stop just beyond a pair of black MH-6 helicopters. The sergeant who’d shepherded them opened the door, unfolding the ladder to the ground.

“Sir, it’s been an honor having you,” he told Josh.

Josh mumbled his thanks.

“Please watch your step, okay? Careful with that little one. Ma’am, a real pleasure. Thank you for your service.”

Mara caught Josh’s elbow from behind as he stepped away from the plane.

“That’s our car,” she told him.

A Lincoln Town Car stood at the edge of the cement apron. The rear door opened. A short, middle-aged man got out. He looked a bit like an accountant, in a dark suit and rumpled white shirt. “Josh?”

“You’re Peter.”

“I told you I’d get you home,” said Lucas. He was beaming, a proud father greeting the prodigal son.

His handshake was a little limp, Josh thought.

“And you must be Mạ,” said Peter, stooping down. “Xin chào. How are you?”

He reeled off some Vietnamese. Mạ pressed closer to Josh.

“We’re going to be great friends,” Lucas said, rising. “I have some nurses and a doctor who will take really good care of you.”

“Child psychologist?” asked Josh.

“The best.” Lucas turned to Mara. “You! How the hell are you?”

They hugged. Mara pecked him on the cheek. It was almost like a family reunion.

“You did good, Mara. Damn good.” Lucas shooed them into the car. “Come on, we have an appointment to keep and we’re a little late.”

“Where are we going?” Mara asked.

“White House. President wants to talk to you right away. As in, now.”

When Josh McArthur was in seventh grade, his school had arranged a visit to Washington, D.C. The highlight of the trip — if one didn’t count the scandalous game of strip spin the bottle after hours at the hotel — was a visit to the White House. Josh wasn’t one of the six or seven kids who’d gotten to shake the president’s hand when they visited the Oval Office, but the memory of standing around the room was still vivid.

And here he was now, an adult, an important person, waiting in the back of the limo as it whipped up the driveway toward the West Wing.

“Ready?” Lucas asked as the car came to a stop in the circle below the portico entrance to the building. Two limos, with only their drivers inside, were blocking the drive in front of the doorway.

“I could use a cup of coffee,” said Mara.

A uniformed Marine Corps guard opened the door. Josh stepped out, then reached back and helped Mạ. The night was warm, nearly as hot as Vietnam and almost as sticky. A swarm of small flies buzzed nearby.

“Damn gnats,” said Lucas. “Damn things are everywhere.”

Mycetophilidae. One of the indicators of extreme climate change — an increase in fungi in the environment, generally caused by increased dampness, meant there was more food for them. The bugs’ diversity — there were more than three thousand described species — meant that they could rapidly adapt to pesticides.

Josh had been involved in a study examining the genus as an undergrad.

And there was a great deal of mold in the air — he struggled to hold hack a sneeze.

Mạ had no idea what was going on. She held Josh’s hand tightly as they walked. Then she said something to Mara in Vietnamese.

“She’s hungry,” Mara told Lucas.

“We’ll get some food in a minute.”

“Mr. Lucas, good to see you, sir,” said a young man in a black suit. He had a clipboard in his hand. “You’re Mr. MacArthur?”

“Yeah,” said Josh, trying to keep from sneezing.

“Really, really good to meet you, sir. After all you’ve been through.”

“Uh-huh.” Josh turned and sneezed.

“Ms. Duncan?”

“That’s me.”

“Thank you for your service, ma’am. And this is…?”

“Mạ,” said Mara. “We don’t know what her other name is.”

“Follow me, please.”

Josh sneezed a few more times. The aide raised his clipboard and waved them toward the doors. Josh had imagined there would be a crowd of reporters, even though it was night, but the only people he saw were the Marines and uniformed Secret Service agents prowling nearby. He, Mara, Lucas, and Mạ went through a metal detector at the door, then followed the aide up the stairs to a small room used as a waiting area.

“Can I get anyone anything?” asked the aide.

“Can you get something for the kid?” asked Lucas.

“Sure. What would she eat?”

“Peanut butter and jelly?” said Josh.

“I don’t think she knows what that is,” said Mara.

“I don’t know what I can find in the cafeteria this late,” said the aide. “But I’ll look for something. What else?”

“Coffee,” said Mara. “With a little milk. No sugar.”

“Me, too,” said Lucas.

Josh passed.

“Sneezing done?” asked Lucas.

“Probably have another round, adjusting to the AC,” said Josh. “Allergies.”

“Vietnam didn’t help, huh?”

“No.”

Josh felt some of the excitement draining from him. He was tired, jet-lagged; he wished he could go to sleep.

The door opened. A bald man with a round face leaned inside. “Peter, you ready?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” said Lucas, jumping to his feet.

“You’re MacArthur, right?” said the bald man. He stuck out his hand. He was wearing a blue blazer over khaki pants, a blue-striped shirt, and a rep tie. “Glad to meetcha.”

Josh shook his hand. It was a solid, though moist, grip.

“Turner Cole. I’m the assistant to the deputy national security adviser on Asia.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“My pleasure.”

“Mara Duncan,” said Mara.

“Mara, thanks for coming. This is the little girl, right? Josh? You saved her?”

“She found me. Her people were killed.”

Cole pressed his lips together tightly. The gesture seemed a little too pat to Josh.

“This way, all right?” said Cole.

Cole led them down a short hallway to a rounded hallway. Two Secret Servicemen were standing outside.

This is it, thought Josh. Finally.

As soon as Greene heard the knock at the door, he raised his hand to quiet Frost. The CIA director stopped speaking midsentence.

“Come,” said Greene. He leaned back in his chair, watching as Turner Cole led in Lucas, Mara, Josh, and Mạ. In an instant, Greene sized them up, analyzing how they would come across on television.

Regular people. Kids.

God, they were kids — Josh looked like he was still in high school. But then everybody seemed to look that way to him these days.

The little girl was adorable. She reminded him of his grandkids.

“Mr. President, this is CIA officer Mara Duncan, and scientist Josh MacArthur,” said Cole. “And Ms. Mạ.”

“Mara Duncan, Josh MacArthur,” said Greene, rising and stepping out from behind the desk. “Damn, I’m glad to meet you.”

He grabbed Josh’s hand and pumped it, then stepped over and gave Mara a hug and kiss on the cheek. She was a big girl — nearly as tall he was.

“And who are you?” Greene asked, sliding down on his haunches to look at the little girl.

She turned and buried her face in Josh’s leg. The scientist put his hand on her protectively.

“She doesn’t understand English, Mr. President,” said Mara.

“Have you sent someone to talk to her? A psychologist?”

“We haven’t had the chance.”

“I want someone.” Greene stood. “Turner. A psychologist and a translator. Actually, see if you can find a child psychologist who can speak Vietnamese.”

“We did find one, Mr. President. She’ll be here in the morning.”

“Excellent. Excellent. Well, sit,” he added, turning to Lucas. “Good work, Peter. Again. Good work.”

Greene sat on the edge of his desk. “Josh, I’ve seen the footage,” he said. “Terrible stuff. Tell me in your own words what happened.”

“Well, um, I’d gone to Vietnam to, uh, study the effects of climate change, as I guess you know. I was with a UN team and we were studying the flora and fauna — ”

“You might just want to skip to the essential parts,” said Frost.

Greene gave Frost a wink. Josh recounted the night when he had woken and left camp to relieve himself, just escaping the massacre. Then he spoke of the village where he’d gone, the hand he’d found in the dirt. His voice grew stronger as he continued.

Greene liked that. They could use that.

“Do you have the location of that site?” Frost asked.

“I’m not really sure,” said Josh. “I ended up a lot closer to the border than I thought I was.”

“All right,” said the president. “Now how did you find our little princess here?”

Josh felt his nose starting to act up, tickling as if a sneeze was about to follow. He tried to ward it off, but it was difficult while he was talking.

Something about the way that the president’s people were treating Mạ bothered him. They were too — was “unctuous” the right word?

They wanted her as proof of the massacre. But something about it, something about the way they treated her — she was important only for their political agenda.

Not that he didn’t agree with the agenda. China must be stopped. But still: he felt as if he had to protect Mạ, and bringing her here, contrary to his expectations, seemed to be doing the opposite.

The CIA director turned a notebook computer around and showed him a map of northern Vietnam, trying to pin down where exactly the massacre had taken place. Josh located the camp where they had been when the Chinese first attacked, but the map showed the stream where he had been chased on the wrong side — or at least what he thought was the wrong side.

“Should be up here,” he said. And as he pointed, he sneezed, barely covering his nose and mouth with his forearm.

“God bless,” said the president. “Peter, I think you can work on the exact location and narrow it down later. In fact — ”

The president paused, a thought forming in his mind. Josh and the others looked at him expectantly. Then Josh sneezed again.

“Hope that’s not catching,” said the president. He smiled at Josh, letting him know it was a joke.

Or at least Josh thought it was.

“I, uh — no. Allergies,” said Josh, sneezing again. “Excuse me, sir.” He got up and moved toward the door, trying to discreetly blow his nose.

“It may be more useful to us to be vague,” said the president. “For now. To make it seem as if we don’t know exactly where it is.”

Frost and the president began discussing the political implications. Josh, though consumed by his sudden sneezing fit, was shocked, not only that they were planning how best to use the information, but that they would consider holding back some of it. Facts were facts — data points, whether convenient or not, had to be shared and dealt with. That was the only way one reached truth.

Scientific truth, at least.

The president turned to him abruptly. “Josh, here’s what I’d like you to do. I’m going to address a special session of the United Nations on Friday.” Greene pushed off from the desk and walked past Josh toward a large globe that stood near the fireplace. He put his hand on it, moving it gently, gazing at it distractedly. “I’d like you to be my guest. And to repeat what you’ve told me.”

“Everything?” said Josh.

“Well, shorten it a hit,” said the president.

“The interesting parts,” said Frost drily. “And we can do without the sneezing.”

The president laughed. So did Frost, after a moment.

“It’s all right, Josh. The director has a very droll sense of humor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you, little girl” — Greene leaned toward Mạ; his voice was soft and gentle — ”would you tell your story to the world?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” blurted Josh.

Everyone looked at him.

“Why not?” asked Frost.

“Because — she’s just… a little kid.”

“Well, I agree with you there, Josh.” The president straightened. “But — well, let’s take the matter under advisement.” He turned to Cole. “The psychologist will be here in the morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll get his input.”

“Hers.”

“Hers.”

Greene frowned. Josh could tell he didn’t like being corrected.

“But, Josh, you’ll definitely be there, yes?” said Greene enthusiastically.

“Well, yes, sir.”

“Ms. Duncan, I’d like you there as well,” said the president. “The media will be interested in your impressions. And how you got our friend out.”

“The SEALs played a part,” said Mara. “Two of them died.”

Greene looked at Frost. “The Chinese killed them, right?”

“That’s what we believe.”

“Then there’s not a problem with that,” the president told Frost.

“I don’t want to be giving away craft,” said Frost. “I think we should just produce Josh and leave it at that.”

“She adds authenticity,” said Greene. He looked over at her. “And she’s an attractive young woman. Ms. Duncan, hope you don’t mind my compliment. I’m afraid that’s how things are with the media. People will look at your pretty face and focus on that rather than your intelligence and resourcefulness, which I’m sure were the real reasons for your success.”

Mara had flushed. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Not at all. You’re the one who deserves thanks. And you, too, Mr. Lucas. I know you and your staff have been working hard on this.”

“Thank you.”

“Get someone from my staff to help Josh whittle down his speech,” Greene told Cole. “One of the political boys. Billy would be best. Jablonski. You know what? I’ll call him myself.”

The president walked to his desk, picked up the phone, and told the White House operator to get him William Jablonski.

Josh glanced at his watch. It was nearly 1 a.m. Was Jablonski still in his office?

“You’ll like Billy,” said Greene, looking over at them from the phone as he waited for the call to go through. “He’s a bit of a pill, but he knows his stuff. He got me through New York. And that took some doing. Don’t offer to buy him lunch though.”

“Josh,” said Mạ, tugging on him.

Josh turned to her. “What’s up, honey?”

“Josh,” said Mạ.

Mara leaned over to her and whispered something in her ear. They exchanged a few words in Vietnamese.

“She’s tired,” said Mara. “She should get some sleep.”

“We have a nurse who can take her,” said Cole. “There’s a bed all ready for her.”

“In a hotel?” asked Josh.

“My house.” Cole beamed. “My wife and I have two kids, eight and five. She’ll fit right in.”

“She only speaks Vietnamese,” said Josh.

“I have a translator coming,” said Frost.

Meanwhile, the president’s line connected.

“Billy,” said the president, his voice rising several decibels. “Listen, I have an incredibly important assignment for you… The hell with that. I’ll square that for you… No, that’s crap… Listen, I have a real hero here — a pair of heroes. Josh MacArthur and Mara Duncan. Josh witnessed the Chinese massacre of a village in Vietnam. Ms. Duncan rescued him from behind the lines.”

“There were SEALs involved, Mr. President,” said Lucas.

“SEALs, too,” said the president. “It sounds like a movie plot, but it’s real. I want Josh to talk with me Friday in New York. He needs a little polish. Not too much — it shouldn’t be Hollywood. Find him some clothes, too. Get Sara on it… Well, whoever you think can do a decent job. He should look like a scientist, though, not some wiseass rap star… You won’t have to do anything with her.”

The president gave Mara a wink, then told Jablonski that he would be hearing from Josh and Mara later in the day.

“No, you know what? Get up to New York. You can meet with them there,” the president told Jablonski. “And, Billy, this is quiet until the session. No advance notice, you understand. That columnist at the Times you have in your pocket — if he finds out about this before I step to the podium, you are going to be flailed and I’ll be using your skin as a bear rug at Camp David. Capisce?”

Mara watched the president, considering how to explain tactfully that she didn’t want to go public, since doing so would effectively end her career in operations.

It bothered her that neither Frost nor Lucas had pointed this out. Lucas especially.

The risk wasn’t just to her. Anyone who had dealt with her would presumably be in danger: guilty by association. She hadn’t been a spy recruiter, but a good portion of her work in South Asia had called for the use of aliases and other covers, and there would be a decent trail of potential exposures.

So why the hell hadn’t Lucas pointed this out? Frost, maybe — maybe — wasn’t completely aware of her resume, but Peter Lucas certainly was.

The president hung up the phone. Before Mara could say anything, there was a loud knock on the door. Turner Cole, the aide who had taken them there, stepped into the office and told the president that the NSC adviser and staff, along with the secretaries of state and defense, were waiting in the Cabinet Room.

“Good, very good.” Greene practically sprang from his seat. “I think we’re going to keep you two under wraps,” he said, pointing to Mara and Josh. “I just need the director and Mr. Lucas. Get up to New York, both of you.”

“Mr. President,” said Mara. “Sir — ”

“Mr. President, Mạ is very tired,” said Josh quickly.

“Mạ? Oh, right — well, of course. It’s past her bedtime,” said Greene. “Turner — are all the arrangements made?”

“Yes, sir. We just — we were getting a translator.”

“Well, where is she?” said Greene. He got up and started walking toward the door. “Come on now. I want this girl taken care of. Marty!”

The president disappeared through the door, calling for one of his aides. Cole and Frost followed him.

“Peter, I have to stay covert,” Mara said to Lucas as he got up. “If I go public, my career is over.”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Lucas. “Don’t worry.”

Josh stood, waiting with Mạ for the president to return. She pushed against his side, sucking her thumb, her eyes narrow slits.

“She’s got to get some sleep,” he told Mara.

“Mr. Cole is going to take care of her.”

“You think that’s okay?”

“Well — what else do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. She can — she could stay with us.”

“Us?”

“Me.”

“You ever take care of kids?”

The answer of course was no. And Josh couldn’t speak Vietnamese. Still, he didn’t want to leave her.

“Look who I found,” said Turner Cole, returning to the Oval Office. A young Vietnamese-American, his eyes drooping, and a woman with a small backpack followed. The translator and nurse, Tommy Lam and Georgette Splain, respectively.

The translator dropped to the floor, legs curled, and began talking to Mạ. She looked at him for a few moments, not saying anything. Then suddenly she started talking, words racing from her mouth.

“She wants more ice cream,” explained Mara. “Mr. Lam says he knows where they can get some.”

“All night Friendly’s,” said Lam, beaming. You’d never know he had a sweet tooth to look at him; he couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds.

“Mạ really should be getting to bed,” said the nurse.

Josh felt pangs of jealousy as the translator, the nurse, and Cole talked with Mạ. It was silly. He couldn’t take care of her.

Actually, he had taken care of her. In the jungle. But here there were professionals and people with kids. He wasn’t exactly Mạ’s dad.

Mạ looked up at Josh as Lam explained that she was going to go with them to Mr. Cole’s. He would stay the night on a couch to help translate.

“I’m — I–I’m going to stay in a hotel, Mạ,” said Josh. “All right?”

Mara bent down and started talking to Mạ in Vietnamese. When she was done, Mạ turned to Josh and hugged him. He reached down and grabbed her.

Tears welled in his eyes.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said.

He looked away as she left.

“I told her that we’ll see her,” said Mara. “And that there are other kids.”

Josh nodded.

“We want to find the site, but keep it quiet,” Greene whispered to Frost as they walked toward the Cabinet Room. “Put it under surveillance. When word leaks out, dollars to doughnuts the Chinese will try and dig up the bodies. We’ll have it on video.”

“Dollars to doughnuts?” said Frost.

“That’s my stomach talking.” Greene laughed. “Let’s get Josh and Mara up to New York, get them ready for Friday. Have them leave tonight.”

“What about the girl?”

“She can come up with me.”

“You think she should testify?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“We have to vet her first.”

“What do you mean vet? The scientist found her in the jungle, right?”

“We have to hear what her story is. We just heard what Mara said.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

“George…”

“Have your man Lambert talk to her and hear her story. He has until Friday.”

“You really think it’s a good idea? We have the scientist.”

“Christ, Peter. All these years and you still don’t know crap about what sells in the media, do you?”

8

As a military strategist, Major Win Christian was plodding and predictable, exactly the sort of opponent Zeus would love to meet on the battlefield. In fact, the only time Zeus ran into trouble when facing him in the Red Dragon war games was when he failed to account properly for Christian’s stupidity. Faced with what looked like an idiotic development, Zeus had trouble believing his opponent wasn’t setting him up for some brilliantly clever and devious counterplay. But that was never the case.

As an engineer, however, Christian had real talent. Charged with helping the Vietnamese navy and air force — such as they were — come up with fake submarines and aircraft, he was creative and efficient. His hastily arranged collections of sheet metal, wood, and bamboo at Hai Phong not only gave Vietnam a dozen submarines overnight, but showed stockpiles of what looked like long-range torpedoes, along with the external modifications that allowed the weapons to be strapped to launchers on the hull. He also added the capacity to carry an unspecified but suitably nasty-looking antiship missile to a pair of otherwise inoperable Hormone helicopters.

“I call it the Zeus Murphy weapon,” said Christian proudly. “A lethal dose of bullshit in every breath.”

“Har-har,” said Zeus, stooping over the coffee table in General Perry’s hotel suite to examine the photo.

The weapon and the subs looked so real that even trained satellite analysts couldn’t tell that they were fake — as the intelligence alert posted by the U.S. National Reconnaissance Office an hour earlier attested.

“Vietnam Moving Antiship Weapons onto Helicopters” was the title of the brief but credulous report.

“I wonder if the CIA would be able to leak this intelligence to the Chinese,” said General Perry.

“The Chinese are already seeing this on their satellites,” said Christian. “There’s no need to leak it.”

“If they think that we think this is happening, it adds more credibility,” Perry added.

“I may be able to try something,” said Zeus. He remembered that Mara had warned him not to deal with the CIA station at the embassy; while she hadn’t been explicit, it was obvious from her hints that there was some sort of mole there, working for either the Chinese or the Vietnamese. In any event, it would be an easy matter to leave this for them in hopes of its getting back to Beijing.

“Do you have time?” asked Perry.

“I don’t leave for a couple of hours,” said Zeus. “Now that I know where Hai Phong is, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The driver assigned to him earlier in the day had gotten lost. Vietnam was a small country, but it turned out that many of its residents, even soldiers, had never visited anywhere very far from the place they had grown up.

Perry turned to Christian. “Major, would you excuse us for a moment?”

Christian nodded.

“Drink?” Perry asked, going to the credenza at the side of the suite room.

“Sure.” Zeus jumped to his feet.

Perry was short and very thin; Zeus guessed he was no taller than five six, and if he weighed 130 it was only with his winter uniform on. But Perry had two Silver Stars and three Bronze Stars with the V device — V as in Valor, an award given only if its recipient had been under fire. He’d more than proven his mettle.

Until this assignment, Zeus had had only brief contacts with the general during war games, and thought he was very standoffish and cold. His opinion had changed considerably in the past few days, however; the general had proven not only warmer, but much more clever and unorthodox than Zeus had suspected.

“I would offer you your choice,” said Perry, picking up a bottle, “but it will all come down to the same thing — Johnnie Walker Black Label, or Johnnie Walker Black Label?”

“I’ll take the Black Label.”

“Neat?”

Since there was no ice, neat would have to do. Perry poured two fingers’ worth into the clear glass and handed it over. Then he poured three fingers’ worth for himself.

Rank had its privileges.

“After the war, an import-export business focusing on liquor,” said Perry, holding up his glass.

“I’m not really sure international trade is my thing,” said Zeus.

“I meant for me.”

Perry smiled and took a slug of the Scotch. Zeus took a small sip.

“You,” said Perry, “I expect will stay in the Army, go on to become a general, and eventually chief of staff. Assuming you don’t get killed on this mission.”

“I’m not planning to, General.”

“None of us do.” Perry took another sip of Scotch. This time he savored the whiskey.

“The submarine base near Sanya on Hainan,” said Perry. “We’re reasonably sure the submarines aren’t there?”

“They’ve used the bay as an overflow area for landing craft. I don’t think they would if the subs were there.”

“Hmmm.”

“The subs would add to their alarm,” said Zeus. “Just make them more nervous.”

“Maybe.”

Zeus fidgeted. He hadn’t been able to get the Navy to give him information on the precise whereabouts of the submarines — it was too closely guarded — but earlier alerts had indicated that the two boomers generally stationed there had put out to sea. Chinese doctrine called for them to be deepwater, within range of their American targets, during times of attack.

On the other hand, the harbor facilities were generally considered capable of hiding up to twenty submarines. There could easily be more there.

“You don’t have to go,” said Perry abruptly.

“I know that.”

“I’m serious. You’re pretty damn valuable — I should have vetoed it. I should have told the president no. It’s not too late,” added Perry. “I’ll take the heat. None of it will come back on you.”

“I think I can do it, General.”

Zeus almost said that he wanted, to do it — that he was dying to do it. His small tastes of action in the aircraft bombing the dam and then later driving the truck behind the lines to help get the SEALs and Josh MacArthur had fired him up. Accepting his promotion to major had meant leaving the Special Forces unit. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it until the first few shots had whizzed over his head.

That part he didn’t miss. Escaping them, the exhilaration of beating an enemy — that was the good part. That was the part to live for.

Not that he could say that out loud. Saying it out loud would make him seem like a mindless bozo. It was one thing to be dedicated, and another to be dedicated to the point of recklessness. Perry saw the mission as reckless. Zeus didn’t: he saw it as difficult, not reckless. But recklessness was in the eye of the general.

“Hmmph.” Perry walked to the window. Despite the bombings, the hotel windows had not been broken. In fact, none of the large foreign hotels in the area had been hit. The Chinese seemed to be making at least a token effort to avoid hitting areas where tourists and business-people were concentrated.

“What do you think about taking Win with you?” asked Perry, gazing toward the river. The top of a Vietnamese gunboat, struck a few hours before by Chinese warplanes in broad daylight, was just visible. About three-quarters of the ship was underwater, the hull resting in the shallows where the captain had beached the craft to make recovery operations easier.

“You want me to take Win?” said Zeus.

“Actually I don’t.” The window reflected Perry’s grin. “But the major asked me to ask you. And whether I think it’s a good idea or not, I feel obliged to follow through on the request. Just as I would for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not an order, Zeus.” Perry went over to the couch and sat back down. “I know you and he don’t exactly get along.”

“We don’t have to be friends to do our jobs, sir.”

“It can help, though. Win does have some talents,” added Perry. “He does speak some Chinese.”

Just enough to read off a menu, thought Zeus.

“I expect he was quite a pill at the Point,” said Perry.

“Top in the class,” said Zeus. It was a double entendre — Christian had been both the valedictorian and the biggest jackass.

“He is handicapped,” said Perry gravely. “That ego must make it hard to get in and out of doors.”

Zeus guffawed, utterly surprised by Perry’s remark. Generals never spoke of their underlings so candidly. Or at least this one never had.

“But as you say, you don’t have to like someone to work with him,” continued Perry, going back over to the Scotch. “Sometimes you can influence people the way gravity influences them. Push them in certain directions by exposing them to different things. Sometimes that breaks people. But sometimes, if you have the right person, it can help them overcome their flaws.”

Perry had just given Zeus the reason he had put Christian on his staff. He recognized that the major was headed for the very high ranks, and wanted to help him become a better officer. Maybe it would work — maybe Christian was becoming more human, less of a jerk.

But was he becoming more of a soldier? Soldiers couldn’t go around with sticks up their butt, or complain when a foreign army officer didn’t give a by-the-book salute. Or bitch because the seat in the helicopter had no padding.

“He did good work with the decoys,” said Perry. “That may be useful on the island. And he claims to know a bit about explosives.”

Not nearly as much as I do, thought Zeus.

“Your call,” said Perry.

“He does know some Chinese,” said Zeus. “So maybe he would be useful. If he can swim.”

Christian did know how to swim, though he couldn’t figure out why Zeus was asking.

“Because if we run out of fuel, we’re going to swim to shore,” Zeus told him.

“Running out of fuel is not an option,” said Christian.

“It’s not a planned option, no shit,” said Zeus. “Which is why I’m asking you again, can you swim?”

“Shit yeah.”

“Then you’re in.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t jump up and down.”

“I’m not.”

Be nice to the handicapped, Zeus told himself, even if the handicap is only an irony deficiency.

He laid out the basic game plan, which called for eight Zodiacs to rush across the Gulf of Bac Bo as soon as night fell. They’d have only sixteen Vietnamese soldiers, along with two spies; the rest of the space in the boats would be taken up by the engineered debris. At the same time, a pair of gunboats and the two real submarines that Vietnam had would leave port, trying to attract the attention of the Chinese ships offshore. The diversion would both help the Zodiacs cross and plant the idea that the submarines were responsible for part of the attack.

Once across the gulf, they’d land on Hainan near a fish-farming operation about twenty-five miles southwest of Ledong Lizu. There they would steal a pair of boats and take them around the southern end of the island, arriving at the target area by first light. They’d scout the harbor, find the easiest targets to plant their charges on, then go to work again at nightfall, setting charges and debris to make it look as if the ships had been hit by torpedoes from the minisubs. Charges would be planted in the boats they stole to make them look as if they’d been hit by torpedoes as well. They’d aim to coordinate with a 3 a.m. attack from the missiles on the tenders.

“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

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

“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.”

The 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.

The historian disagreed. The government would last at least another month, and then a guerrilla war would follow.

“I could see that,” said the general. “But unlike their war with us, they won’t have outside support from Russia. The insurgency will wither on the vine.”

Jing Yo wasn’t sure what that meant, though both men seemed to agree that the war would end soon in China’s favor.

“The Vietnamese should never have attacked China,” said the general. “It was a classic blunder of hubris. Their egos got the better of them.”

Jing Yo flipped the television off.

The West was populated by fools. While this benefited China, it nevertheless disgusted him.

11

The spy Quach Van Dhut brought along for the Hainan mission was even smaller than he was. She was also a woman, and a very pretty one.

Her name was Solt Thi Jan; her given name (the last) was short for Janice. The name as well as her exotic features revealed a mixed family background that included an American grandfather. Despite her ancestry, she seemed to speak little or no English, relying on Quach to translate when Zeus spoke to her. But Quach assured Zeus that she was a skilled operative who also had been on Hainan before. He had no trouble, he said, putting himself in her hands.

As small as she was, Jan shouldered all of her own gear, which included a rubber pouch for her AK-47, which had a paratrooper-style folding stock. Zeus had no reason to object.

They set out an hour before the sun went down, giving themselves a few extra minutes to avoid the approaching Chinese surveillance satellite, which crossed just before dusk. They paired up, each group leaving sixty seconds after the other. Poorly equipped, the Vietnamese marines had no radio communication among the boats; they used small flashlights to signal each other. It was, Zeus mused, an effective means of radio silence.

Zeus and Christian borrowed wet suits to wear, along with small Mae West-style life vests, tac vests, and special bags for their gear. They also had civilian clothes for Hainan. The wet suits were the largest the Vietnamese had, but they were still tight, especially around the crotch; too much of this, Zeus thought, and he wouldn’t have to worry about birth control for a while.

He had the helm in the lead craft, where he could use his GPS and act as a pathfinder for the others. Besides two marines, Solt was in the boat as well; her Chinese would be handy when they came to shore. Christian was in the third boat. Quach took the last craft, on the theory that he would have the easiest time if separated from the others.

Unlike the infiltration boats American units used, these Zodiacs and their engines were not purpose built. Starting life as normal pleasure or work craft, they had undergone a few modest modifications — they were now black instead of the original gray, their motors had detachable mufflers, and they carried extra fuel. But otherwise the little craft were so sturdy that there was no need for extensive changes. The marines had a lot of practice with them, and even with the heavy load of debris each carried, they made good time across the open water.

An hour after setting out, Zeus checked their location on his GPS unit and found they were almost ten miles farther than planned. Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been an excellent start, but they were running ahead of the diversion. At least three Chinese ships were in the area east of them; if they kept going they were sure to sail right into them.

Zeus gave the order to stop, then signaled for the other boats to draw close. The waters were choppy, with the wind kicking up, but the marines brought the boats together expertly.

“We need to wait,” Zeus told the others, explaining what had happened. “We need to give the Chinese destroyers to the east time to grab the bait.”

“I think waiting is a fool’s mission,” said Christian. “We’re as likely to be seen here as anywhere.”

“The major is right,” said Quach. “To wait now tempts fate as much as going ahead.”

Zeus checked his watch. The Vietnamese patrol boats were leaving with the satellite. By now they would be broadcasting their position with a series of “sloppy” radio messages sure to be intercepted. So the Chinese should already be on their way south.

Or not. There was no guarantee that they would take the bait at all.

“All right,” said Zeus. “Everybody have their knives?”

The marines held them up. It was a not-too-subtle reminder that, to protect the mission, the Zodiacs and the weighted debris were to be scuttled to avoid capture.

“Let’s move ahead.”

Twenty minutes later, Zeus lifted binoculars to his eyes and strained to see into the distance. The night had darkened and the ocean smelled of rain. That was probably good, he reasoned; a storm would preoccupy the Chinese ships, making them much less likely to be on guard.

“There!” said the marine across from Zeus. Zeus turned to the north. There was a low black shadow on the horizon. It was heading in their direction.

A destroyer.

They’d make it past, he calculated; so could the boat following them. But he couldn’t be sure about the others.

He swung back to find the other boats.

They sat on the ocean for a half hour, waiting for the Chinese vessel to pass south. The ship’s outline was barely visible, and only when the waves took the Zodiac to their highest crest.

Quach sat in his boat next to Zeus, smoking the entire time. They’d killed the engines, and his smoke-laden breaths were louder than the slap of the waves against the rubber hulls.

Zeus was tired. Even though his heart was pumping with adrenaline, he felt his eyes sliding closed. He had to lean over the side and throw water on his face.

“Do you want a cigarette?” asked Quach. “It will help you keep awake.”

“I’m okay.”

They started out again a few minutes later. The monotonous drone of the engine and the slacking waves reinforced Zeus’s desire for sleep. He found himself wishing he’d taken up Quach’s offer of a cigarette — or better, had taken along a stash of the “go” pills doctors often prescribed for USSOCOM members on critical night missions.

Within minutes they were passing through a small rain squall. The water struck the boat so hard that it shook. Within five minutes they were beyond it, the ocean considerably calmer, but the night just as black.

The boats drew tighter together. An hour passed, boredom giving way to excitement as they neared land. Every apprehension Zeus had had about the mission began asserting itself; every possible argument against it echoed in his head.

He stretched; he moved around in the boat as much as its small size and the weighted bags of cargo and gear allowed. He knew he’d be fine once he got to shore. Once he was actually doing something, all the doubts dropped away. It was like playing quarterback — get on the field and the butterflies stopped flapping their damn wings.

“Major!” said the marine at the bow, pointing right.

Zeus looked into the shadows.

It was land.

He pulled his GPS out, surprised that they were so close already.

Then he realized it wasn’t land; it was a small ship, cutting north with no running lights.

“Gas!” yelled Zeus. “Give it the gas!”

The marine nailed the throttle. The ship just missed them. Its wake nearly threw the small Zodiac under the water.

Their second boat wasn’t as lucky. As the ship cleared, Zeus heard a scream behind them.

“Turn us around, turn us around!” he yelled, anxiously scanning the waves.

12

Once a week, President Greene and his wife spent an hour having coffee together in the morning. It was a ritual they had begun decades earlier, when their schedules were easier to manage, but the practice was sacrosanct as far as the first lady was concerned; she insisted that her husband make the time.

If matters had been left completely to him, of course, he might never have made it. But the first lady knew a thing or two about politics — Greene’s appointments secretary and the chief of staff not only knew how important the time was to her, but also realized there would be hell to pay if the president missed the coffee.

Greene did, however, occasionally bring work to the sessions, which were held in the residence. He also pretended to be surprised by interruptions that he had arranged, knowing that his wife would not object if they at least seemed spontaneous.

“I really think we should invite Brin and the children to spend the holiday at the White House,” said his wife after they sat down in the dining room. “It would be so nice to have the little ones around.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Greene, glancing toward the door. As if on cue — and actually it was — Turner Cole appeared. “Oh look, Martha, here’s Turner. Come on in, Turner. Grab some coffee.”

His wife rolled her eyes at the interruption, then proceeded to welcome Cole graciously, as Greene knew she would. Ms. Greene’s real name was Sally; Martha, a reference to the very first first lady, was a joke between them.

“Coffee, Turner?” asked the president.

“I’m a little caffeined out, Mr. President.”

“Already? It’s barely nine o’clock.”

“Don’t give the poor man the jitters, George,” said Ms. Greene. “You should try the mini cannolis, Turner. They’re very good.”

“Turner, I’m glad you came. It’s a good coincidence,” said the president. It wasn’t a coincidence at all, of course — Greene had made it clear that Cole was to be sent over as soon as he arrived. “Here’s something you should hear, Sal. We have this little girl, an orphan girl from Vietnam. The cutest thing. Her name is Mạ. Right, Turner?”

“There’s a down tone on the vowel, Mr. President. Maa.”

“Yes,” said Greene. Actually, it was Turner who had the accent a little off, but the president didn’t feel like giving the aide a language lesson. “Now the horrible thing is, Sal, her family was assassinated by the Chinese.”

“My God.”

“How is she, Turner?”

“She’s very good, Mr. President. She, uh, she misses Mr. MacArthur.”

“Well she’ll see him soon enough. She’s going with me to New York Friday, Sal.”

“She’s not going to that dreadful dinner, is she?”

“No, she’s testifying before the UN. She’ll make a great case.”

“Testifying?”

“Just saying what happened to her family.”

Ms. Greene frowned.

“What’s wrong, Sal?”

“How old is this little girl?”

“Teri’s age — six or seven.”

“We believe six, sir,” said Cole.

“You’re going to have her speak before the UN?” said Ms. Greene.

“Why not?”

The first lady shook her head.

“She has held up remarkably well, Ms. Greene,” said Cole.

“I’m sure she has. On the surface,” said the first lady.

“We’re having a psychologist look her over,” said Greene.

“They’re with her now,” said Cole.

“You’d better be gentle with her, George,” said Ms. Greene.

“She’s not going to break.”

“She’s still a child. Would you want Teri to speak before the UN?”

“She’d have them eating out of the palm of her hand. God, she’d be fantastic.”

“A week after her parents were killed?”

Greene frowned. His wife was smart, but sometimes she didn’t bring the proper perspective to things.

“These are good,” said Cole, reaching for another cannoli.

“She’s going to get the best care possible,” said Greene. “Believe me.”

“I’m sure,” said his wife. She looked over at Cole. “Try some milk with that,” she told him. “You look a little tired, Turner. I hope my husband isn’t working you too hard.”

13

The ship that had struck the Zodiac continued speeding northward, most likely unaware that it had hit anything. Zeus stood in the rubber-sided raft, trying desperately to see if there were any remains of the boat. Meanwhile, Christian’s two boats came up from the west and started searching as well. They moved in small, concentric circles, the marines grimly looking for their comrades.

“What happened?” asked Quach as his boat drew near the others.

“There was a ship without its lights running north. It struck the other Zodiac.”

“A smuggler,” said Quach. “Avoiding the port taxes. Or something else.”

“I heard someone call out,” said Zeus.

“We can’t wait to look.”

“We’ll take another look around, then catch up to you,” said Zeus.

“We don’t have the GPS,” said Quach. “You have to lead.”

Quach was right. Zeus was sure the marines and the girl were still here somewhere, but the timetable was tight, and waiting jeopardized the mission.

“Where are you?” he yelled. “Where are you?”

“We have to go, Major,” said Quach.

“Hey, Zeus, he’s right,” yelled Christian from his boat.

“Cut the engines for sixty seconds,” Zeus commanded. “Quiet everything down. And then we’ll go.”

One by one, the engines shut off.

“Where are you?” yelled Zeus. “Where are you?”

“Dây,” said a weak voice in the distance. Here.

“Where?”

If there was an answer, he couldn’t hear it.

They restarted the engine and turned the boat toward the north. Even though it was on its lowest setting, the motor drowned everything out. He took the binoculars and scanned the water, but it was next to impossible to see anything. Finally he went to the bow and leaned out across the water with the flashlight, shining it across.

He saw a head, two heads, in the distance.

“There!” he yelled. “There!”

The Zodiac slipped toward them slowly. The heads rose on a wave, cresting above them, then disappeared.

Zeus cursed. He grabbed the marine on his right and put the flashlight in his hand. Then he went over the side, looking for the men he’d just seen.

It was darker and far colder in the water than he’d realized. He came up quickly, empty-handed. He swam forward, then to his right, then back. The salt water stung his eyes, making it even harder to see.

If it weren’t for the flashlight, he wouldn’t have known where the boat was. He realized he had to give up, and swam back to the Zodiac, clinging against the side.

Quach pulled nearby. “Major, your dedication is admirable. But we must go.”

Wordlessly, Zeus pushed himself into the boat. Clearing the salt water from his eyes, he opened his bag and took out the GPS, regaining his bearings.

“This way,” he told the marines.

They started back to the east. The air felt as if it had turned cold, close to freezing.

“Commander! There!” shouted the marine with the flashlight.

Zeus struggled to focus his eyes. All he could see was a black blur, with a dim yellowish white light moving back and forth across it.

The marine leaned over the side. Zeus crawled over the bag of debris in the middle of the raft and reached his hands out, blindly helping as the Vietnamese soldier pulled something into the boat. It was long and dark, and for a moment Zeus thought it was a giant fish.

It was the female intelligence agent, Solt Thi Jan. They laid her out across the large body bags containing the debris. Zeus thought she was dead, but when his fingers touched her face, it felt warm. His training kicked in, and he began following first-aid procedures buried somewhere deep in his consciousness. He bent and started giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Within three breaths he felt resistance; she started to vomit. He managed to get her up and over the side of the raft for most of it.

“Back on course,” he told the marines. He pointed east, then realized he wasn’t sure that it was east and had to hunt around for the GPS to make sure his instincts had been correct.

14

Josh woke in the middle of the bed, the covers off, his body naked. He had no idea where he was or how he’d got there.

He was cold. Very cold.

And he had to sneeze.

He pushed himself out of the bed. The curtains were drawn, but light was peeking through the sides.

He was in a New York hotel. Mara was in the next room.

The bathroom was near the door, to the right.

Up, up, up!

Just as he reached the bathroom, he sneezed. The sound echoed against the marble floor and walls.

He couldn’t find the light. Finally he got the switch that turned on the overhead heat lamp. There was just enough dim light for him to see the box of tissues.

The sneezes ripped through his nose.

“Goddamn,” he cursed. “I’m not in the jungle anymore. Stop, already.”

But his sinuses wouldn’t give in. Sneezing like a maniac, he reached into the shower, turned on the hot water, and let the room steam up, soothing his nasal passages. He buried his face in a towel.

A soft beep began to sound, quickly growing louder. Josh looked around for the source before realizing it was coming from the shower faucet. The water flow slowed, gradually falling to a trickle.

There was a cardboard placard on the sink counter.

Dear guest:

Please conserve energy. Be sparing with the hot water. Due to NYC and state regulations, we have placed limiters on our hot water. Showers will cut off after three minutes’ use. The device prevents the water from being turned back on for twenty minutes.

Josh turned the faucets off, then went and got dressed. His stomach and bladder felt better, but he’d lost track now of when he’d taken his last pill. Better to take an extra one, he decided, and so he took one, then checked the time. It was just after one.

He decided he’d go get some lunch. He opened the door and was surprised to see a man sitting across the way on a chair, a newspaper on his lap.

“Hey,” said the man.

“You talking to me?” Josh asked.

“Saying hello,” said the man. He wore a plaid flannel shirt under a zip-up sweatshirt, along with a pair of black corduroys and Nikes.

“Who are you?”

“Michael Broome.” He reached into his pocket and took out an ID. He flipped it open and closed quickly. “I’m with the marshals.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You’ve been sleeping late,” Broome said. “Right out when I got here. It’s after one. You know that?”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m just hanging to make sure everything is copacetic. Okay? Figured I’d let you have your privacy.”

“I guess.” Josh closed the door behind him.

“Where you going?” asked the marshal.

“Get some food.”

“Great,” said Broome.

Josh looked down the hall, trying to get his bearings. The elevator was to his left. He started for it. Broome followed.

“You coming with me?” Josh asked.

“That’s the general idea.”

Josh shifted back and forth, waiting for the elevator. Broome stood only a few inches away, too close for Josh to feel comfortable. The marshal smelled of whatever he’d had for lunch — some sort of Mexican food, Josh guessed.

An elevator chime announced that the car was arriving. The gondola was empty. Josh stepped in, Broome right at his side.

“Give me a foot, okay,” Josh said as the door closed, stepping away.

“Claustrophobic?”

“Something like that.”

“My cousin’s got that bad. You lock him in a closet, he’ll sign over all his bank accounts just to get out.”

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 he 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

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 stare, 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 Thirty-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:

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.

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.

People began jostling Jing Yo, trying to get closer to the speaker. Deciding he’d indulged his curiosity long enough, he started moving back through the knots of people. A few shouted at him, making points that he couldn’t understand through their accents.

Finally he managed to reach the side street. He walked back west through midtown, then cut around once more in the direction of his hotel.

Jet lag was setting in by the time he reached it. The four men who’d been outside earlier were still there, still staring blankly across the street as he entered. He glanced at the clerk at the front desk. The clerk smiled but said nothing.

The elevator seemed to take forever to arrive. Jing Yo stood perfectly erect, as he had been trained from his first day at the monastery.

Revenge was his purpose, not politics. He had wasted his time at the UN.

He corrected himself. His mission was repentance, not revenge. He had to atone for causing Hyuen Bo’s death.

The elevator door opened. A short black man with a chubby face got out. He was wearing a tracksuit and listening to music on an iPod.

Jing Yo pressed the button for his floor, then stepped to the back of the car. The elevator began to rise.

It stopped at the next floor. A mother and small child started to get in. Then the woman stopped. “Is this elevator going down?” she asked.

“No.”

The doors started to close. Jing Yo threw his hand forward, halting them.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the woman. She bent, then straightened. “You dropped this.”

She handed Jing Yo a business card, then stepped back as the doors closed.

The card was from a diner on Second Avenue, in the shadow of the Queensboro Bridge. Not knowing how close it was, Jing Yo took a taxi, handing the card to the man.

The cabbie’s English was far worse than Jing Yo’s, but he found the place easily and left Jing Yo off in front. Not knowing what to expect, Jing Yo went in and was offered a table toward the back. He asked for a cup of tea.

He was halfway through the tea when the same black man he’d seen in the hotel elevator came into the diner. Seemingly lost in his music, the man didn’t acknowledge Jing Yo as he passed, walking to a booth at the very end of the room.

“There is my young friend,” said a cheerful voice across the room.

It belonged to an elderly Chinese man walking toward Jing Yo from the front of the restaurant. He had a cane, though he didn’t seem to need it for walking; he wielded it like a wand or poker, punching the air before him. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored gray pin-striped suit, with a crisp white shirt and a red patterned tie. A few wisps of hair clung to his temples, but otherwise he was bald. He wore thick bifocal glasses.

Jing Yo rose as he approached.

“Sit, sit,” said the old man, raising his cane and waving it at him. “Have a seat. I am sorry for being late.”

He asked the waitress for tea and a banana muffin. Then he eased himself into the seat, maneuvering slowly, as if he had something in his pockets that he didn’t want to break. “My hips,” he said cheerfully in English. “Both steel.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jing Yo.

“Replacements. They taught me to sit a special way.”

The old man smiled, adjusted his jacket, then looked up at the waitress, who was approaching with his order.

“Would you like more tea, sir?” she asked Jing Yo.

“No,” said Jing Yo.

“You can call me Wong,” said the old man when she left. It was the equivalent in English of asking to be called Jones. “I am in your service.”

He spoke in Chinese, but not the Mandarin dialect — he used Jing Yo’s own native Jin, with an accent heavily tilted toward Shanxi.

“Thank you,” replied Jing Yo.

“English,” said Wong, though he too was using Chinese. “For now. It will raise less suspicion.”

Then he switched seamlessly to English.

“What brings you to America, Mr. Srisai?” asked Wong.

“I am a student,” said Jing Yo. “I have come on an assignment.”

“Mmmmm.” Wong nodded. “A very difficult assignment. I was surprised when I heard of it.”

“I need to get to Washington, I believe. I’m not yet sure. I only just arrived.”

Wong reached his hand across to Jing Yo’s. It was brown, marked with liver spots, and wrinkled. But the grip was strong. “You will have more help here than you suspect. Your progress was marked at the very highest levels of the school. The faculty has taken quite an interest in you.”

“Thank you.”

Wong took a sip of his tea. He savored it, then took another. “This tea has gotten better. Or my taste buds have declined. The exact reason doesn’t matter, if the result is the same.” He picked up his muffin and broke it in half. “What do you think of America?”

“I’ve only just arrived.”

“Mmmmm.” Wong put a small piece of the muffin in his mouth. “You might order one. They’re very good.”

“Thank you.” Jing Yo bowed his head slightly. “But I am fine.”

“I heard you studied to be a monk,” said Wong, shifting to Chinese. “Do you have any dietary requirements?”

“No.”

“We believe the Americans plan to use the scientist for propaganda,” said Wong softly. “We have not yet located him. There are several places a person like this could be. We’re watching his family very closely.”

Wong paused and took another bite of the muffin. He chewed it slowly, as if each movement of his teeth were a dialogue with the food.

“We have other friends. We have ways of finding things out,” said Wong. “It would be ideal to discover him before he is used. After that, there are questions about what course to take. But…”

He let the word hang in the air, the silence suggesting many possibilities — and none.

“I have a theory,” said Wong, returning to his tea. “The president is coming to the United Nations on Friday. When the president makes a speech, perhaps we will see him then.”

Jing Yo said nothing. Finding the man would be difficult enough, but killing him inside the UN, where security would surely be high, would be nearly impossible.

Only because of the time limit. If he had infinite time, he could easily find a way. He would prepare carefully, and infiltrate. But with only a day and a half to get ready, it would be impossible.

“You look daunted,” said Wong.

“Jet lag.”

“You have more help than you can imagine. Even now, hundreds are at work.”

Wong took the last morsel of muffin and ate it, a bit more quickly than he had the others. Then he took his cane and started to rise. Jing Yo rose as well, out of respect.

“Your clothes, even for a student, do not suit you. The clothes make the man.” Wong chuckled. “I have a cousin who is a tailor. He will make you something very suitable, and quickly.” He handed Jing Yo a card.

Jing Yo took it, and watched as Wong walked to the front and paid the bill. Someone jostled him from behind. He turned quickly. It was the black man with the chubby face.

“Yo, bro, you dropped this,” said the man, handing him a BlackBerry cell phone. “Better be careful. Brick’s worth a lot of dough.”

This time, the cabdriver spoke very good English but had a great deal of trouble finding the address. He ended up dropping him off at the corner of Clinton and Houston. Jing Yo walked for a few blocks before finally deciding he had to ask someone for help. It took three passersby before he located the address, a small walk-up shop on the third floor of an old building just up from Rivington Street. There was no number outside; the only confirmation that he was in the right place was a small business card taped below the mailbox. There was no business name, no phone number or address, but the logo, a needle and thread, was the same.

The number 3 was written on the wall next to the card.

Jing Yo went up the stairs and knocked on the door. A young woman, maybe sixteen or seventeen, answered.

He froze as soon as he saw her. She could have been Hyuen Bo’s cousin. Slim, long black hair, breasts that seemed to pull him toward her.

“Yes?” she asked.

He told her in Chinese that he had been sent by Mr. Wong for a new set of clothes.

“I don’t speak very good Chinese,” she told him in English. “You want my father?”

“Mr. Wong sent me,” he said.

“Come in.”

Where Hyuen Bo would have been warm and accommodating, this girl was cold and distant. But that was a blessing. He couldn’t afford to think about his dead lover. He needed to stay far from the memories, away from the longing.

The front room was as small as any of the shops Jing Yo remembered from Hanoi. Old newspapers were stacked chest high against one wall. Fabric samples were scattered in loosely organized piles everywhere. Two wooden chairs, their white paint chipped away, sat on either side of the window. An orange curtain made of velvet hung over a door to the rest of the apartment.

A large oscillating fan stood in the corner. The girl bent to plug it in before leaving.

The shape of her body as she bent was so like Hyuen Bo’s that Jing Yo closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the tailor had shuffled into the room. He wore gray cashmere pants and a blue denim work shirt whose tails hung below his waist.

“Up,” he said in English.

Jing Yo rose. A measuring tape appeared in the man’s fingers. The man was as old as Wong had been, and much more frail, but he worked quickly, silently taking Jing Yo’s dimensions. His hands opened and closed, spreading the tape and reeling it in like a magician manipulating cards. He wrote nothing down, and said nothing until he’d finished.

“Three hour. You come back.”

“Three hours?” said Jing Yo.

“Three hour. Done.”

Jing Yo used the time to get dinner. He had a hamburger in a small combination bar-restaurant two blocks from the tailor. Jing Yo had had hamburgers before, but this was unlike any of those. The meat had a different taste — bloodier, it seemed to him. And definitely fresher. It tasted as if the cow had been slaughtered in the back. It was also much cheaper than it would have been in Asia.

The Americans did have this advantage. They wouldn’t have it for long. And perhaps it explained their arrogance — if you were able to eat like this, you must think you were better than everyone else.

A television was on in the bar, set to a news program. When Jing Yo finished his burger, he watched the report, trying to see what news there was on the war.

To his great surprise, there was nothing. The news was about sports, movie stars, and crime. There were three different stories about robberies in Manhattan. “Home invasions,” the reporter called them.

“Serves those rich bastards right,” said a man sitting on a stool. “They got all our goddamn money. I’d shoot ‘em all. The Wall Street bastards.”

When Jing Yo returned to the tailor’s shop, he found the door ajar. He pushed in slowly, suspicious and unsure.

A pair of suits, one blue, one pin-striped gray, were sitting on a black suitcase.

“Hello?” said Jing Yo. He put his hand on the curtain and pulled it back a few inches. “Hello?”

There was no answer.

He took the blue suit jacket and pulled it on. It fit perfectly, as did the other.

There were more clothes in the suitcase: underwear, socks, shoes. There was also a map of the city, and a tourist guide. A small traveler’s wallet contained several MetroCards, along with two debit cards and several hundred dollars in different bills.

Jing Yo’s phone rang as he was sorting through the wallet.

“Mr. Srisai, I am calling for Mr. Wong. A taxi will meet you downstairs. It will take you to a new hotel. There’ll be an envelope in the backseat of the taxi. In it will be a key for the room. The room number is 1203. You are not to go back to the old hotel. You will receive further instructions shortly.”

“Thank you,” said Jing Yo, but the caller had already hung up.

16

“Damn it!”

Greene slammed the phone down, releasing a small portion of the anger he’d kept in check during the conversation.

A very small portion. The only way to release it all would be to throttle Senator Phillip Grasso.

Then cut him into little pieces with an ax.

And he was a member of his own party!

Greene got up and began pacing around the office. What he really should do was go down to the gym and work out a bit. Or even go upstairs and hit his bike. But he had too much to do. He was supposed to be on the phone right now, sweet-talking Congressman Belkin into voting for his health-care appropriation.

Belkin would ask for a few more dollars in one of the highway allocations. Greene would bargain a bit, but in the end he would have to relent.

Everything was a deal. Everything required some sort of quid pro quo.

And Grasso —

His phone buzzed.

“Yes, Jeannine?” he snapped.

“I’m sorry, Mr. President. Um, you have, uh, Mr. Jablonski is on three-four.”

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Greene told the operator. “My bark is worse than my bite.”

“Yes, sir.”

He picked up the line. “Billy, what the hell is going on?”

“All good,” said Jablonski. “The scientist is a little, uh, well, scientific. Stiff. But he’ll be okay.”

“That’s in our favor, right? Shows he’s authentic.”

“I guess.”

“Did you get him clothes?”

“I sent him to a friend of ours. Same guy I had cut you the suit.”

“You don’t think Anna or someone like that would have been better?”

“You said you didn’t want him to look like a movie star.”

“All right. It’s in your hands. How’s Ms. Duncan?”

“That’s why I’m calling. She doesn’t want to go on.”

“What?”

“If she goes public, she loses her cover.”

“This is more important than her goddamn cover,” said Greene. “The hell with her cover. Who the hell cares about her cover — what does she think she’s going to do, sneak back into Vietnam after the Chinese take it over?”

Jablonski didn’t say anything. But that was reproach enough.

“Why the hell didn’t Frost mention that it would be a problem?”

“I wasn’t involved in the conversation, George.”

“Yeah, yeah, Billy. I know.” The president rolled his head around his neck, stretching his muscles. They always seized up when he got angry. “What do you think?”

“I don’t see any need to use her, to be honest. She’s a good story, but if she’s not into it, she won’t add much. The little girl, on the other hand.”

“Don’t worry about her,” said Greene. “She’s got a hell of a story.”

“And our scientist rescued her.”

“Damn straight.”

“That is pretty compelling. She doesn’t speak English?”

“Christ, Billy. The child is six. She probably doesn’t even speak Vietnamese very well.”

“When do I meet her?”

“She’s coming up with me.”

“All right. We’ll figure something out. Now — the SEALs.”

“What SEALs?”

“Mara told me there were SEALs involved in this.”

“Yes, they came in and helped her get out. She deserves most of the credit though.”

“Two of them died on the mission. That — ”

“I’d rather not emphasize that point,” said Greene. “I don’t want any mention of soldiers in Vietnam.”

“Uh — ”

“No.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. Let’s drop that whole angle. We mention that some CIA people were involved, but we don’t get specific. That’s better anyway. People expect the CIA to be involved.”

“Just say assets.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Listen, I’ll tell you what else I want you to figure out. That jackass senior senator from New York is a pain in my behind.”

“Phil is a pain in a lot of behinds.”

“You get along with him.”

“Not really, George.”

“Sure you do,” said Greene. “I need his damn vote on the committee. What can we do to get it? Short of sexual favors.”

“I’m not sure those would work with him.”

Neither man spoke for a few seconds. The president remembered Jablonski on primary night in New York, pacing up and down the corridor, rethinking every move they had made in the state. Jablonski was sure they were going to lose — Greene could read it on his face.

Oddly, that was what convinced Greene they would win, and win big.

He did, by nearly 8 percent — huge at the time.

“You have to butter him up,” said Jablonski finally.

“I thought you said sex wouldn’t work.”

Jablonski’s laugh sounded like a bull snorting. “What might work,” he said, “is to have our scientist meet him, tell him the story personally. Give him the Lincoln Room treatment. Take him up to New York on your plane, make a big thing out of him getting the information beforehand, the whole deal.”

“That’s only going to encourage him. He already thinks he’s more important than he is.”

“He controls Armed Services. You need him.”

“Hmmmph.”

“He’s probably heard something about this by now anyway.”

He’d better not have, thought Greene. He had the biggest mouth in the Senate. It had gotten him kicked off the Intelligence Committee two years before. And not a second too soon.

“He’s in Syracuse or wherever the hell it is he claims to live,” said Greene. “If he goes to the UN, it’ll only be to oppose me. He’s already threatened to do that.”

“So make the move. Turn on the charm. Hold your friends close. Hold your enemies closer.”

“Don’t quote Machiavelli to me.”

“That was Jablonski 101, not Machiavelli.”

“Oh all right. I’ll try. Set it up, Billy. Make it work.” Greene dropped the phone onto the receiver.

17

Broome was replaced when they got back to the hotel by John Malaki, half African-American, half Asian-American. There was no polite way to get him to disappear when Mara invited him to eat with them.

Which bugged Josh. He wanted to be alone with her.

A driver working for the Marshals Service took them to a small French place uptown, where they were seated alone in a back room. Josh spotted steak and fries on the menu and quickly made his choice. Mara and Malaki bonded over the menu, talking about terrines and pates and sauces that Josh had never heard of. He ordered a bottle of wine — Malaki recommended a Rhone — but ended up drinking alone, as Mara didn’t want any and Malaki wouldn’t drink while working.

Jablonski was waiting for them in the hotel lobby when they got back.

“We’re looking a little refreshed,” he told them. “Josh, did you get the suit?”

“It’ll be delivered in the morning.”

“Did you get a shirt and a tie? Couple of shirts?”

“Just one.”

“You may need a few. I’ll take care of it.”

“I don’t need any charity.”

“It’s not charity. Relax.” Jablonski pointed to the elevator. “Why don’t we go upstairs and talk?”

They went to Mara’s room. Malaki stayed outside, which was fine with Josh. He would have preferred that Jablonski stay there as well.

Mara propped herself up at the head of the bed. Josh and Jablonski took the chairs.

“The president needs you to do a favor for him, Josh,” said Jablonski. “The senator who heads the Armed Services Committee needs to know what’s going on. The president would like you to brief him.”

“Uh, okay. How?”

“The speech is Friday afternoon. The senator is flying into New York City tomorrow. I spoke to his staff and we’re getting something arranged for either tomorrow or maybe Friday morning.”

“Kind of nebulous,” said Josh.

“That’s how these things go,” said Jablonski. “Especially with this senator.”

“Did you talk to the president about me?” asked Mara.

“Yes. All taken care of.”

“You’re sure?”

He held up his hand. “It’s all good.”

“I don’t have to talk to the senator?” she asked.

“No, but you might be — it would be useful to have you along as an aide,” said Jablonski. “We can be vague about your background.”

“You’re not going to testify at the UN?” asked Josh.

“If I go public, I lose my job.”

Josh suddenly worried about the career implications for himself. Was he going to come off here as a political hack, working for the government?

“Something wrong, Josh?” asked Jablonski.

He had to do it. It was his duty. The dead people needed someone to talk for them.

“Nothing.”

“There’ll be some video,” said Jablonski. “Some of the material you brought back. You can explain — the fewer words really the better. The hardest thing will be the questions, because they’re impossible to predict. I’d like to go over some of them tomorrow, okay? There’ll be media questions, and then later, speaking with some of the dignitaries. All right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What about Mạ?” asked Mara.

“The little girl?” asked Jablonski. “She’s going to come up with the president. There’ll be a translator. She won’t be on too long.”

“You think it’s a good idea?” asked Josh.

“Which?”

“For her to talk?”

“Her story is pretty overwhelming, from what you’ve said.”

Josh looked at Mara, but she didn’t say anything. She was clearly relieved about not having to go before the UN.

Jablonski repeated some things that he had said earlier about how to make his presentation. Josh didn’t pay much attention. He mostly watched Mara.

“I know you guys are still tired, so I’ll see you all tomorrow,” said Jablonski, finally getting up. “For breakfast?”

“What time?” asked Mara.

“I get up at five.”

“That’s too early,” said Josh.

“Eight?”

“What are we going to do that we need that much time?” asked Josh.

“We want to go over this so you’re prepared for the questions,” said Jablonski. “It’s pretty important, Josh.”

“I already know what I’m going to say.” Josh looked at Mara. “I’m just going to tell the truth.”

“That’s all we ask,” said Jablonski. “Believe me, it’s better that you’re sick of me than unprepared.”

“Eight’s good,” said Mara.

Josh stayed in his seat as Jablonski got up and Mara showed him to the door.

“What’s up?” she asked, coming back inside the room.

“Do you think we’re lying?” he said.

“I don’t think you should lie at all.” She seemed surprised. “He’s just trying to make sure you get all the details.”

“He keeps suggesting how I phrase things.”

“Well, don’t lie.”

“I’m not going to.” He folded his arms. “What about the soldiers we killed?”

“Where?”

“The ones in the train car.”

Her brow knitted. “What about them?”

“I shouldn’t mention them, right?”

“That wouldn’t be useful.”

“Why not?”

“Because it confuses things.”

“Leaving them out is not a lie?”

“Josh, right now, the world is on the brink of war. People don’t understand what’s going on. You can help. More people will be massacred,” Mara added.

“They’ll get killed no matter what I do or say.”

Mara didn’t answer. Josh looked at her, wanting to say something else — wanting not to talk, but to go over and take her into his arms.

Why didn’t he?

“You’re worried about Mạ?” Mara said.

“Yeah, (hat too.”

“I think she’ll be fine. They’ll get really good people for her.”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, I’m a little beat right now. We can talk better in the morning.”

I should go over there right now, right next to her, and kiss her, thought Josh.

But he didn’t. Even as he got up, even as he left the room, he asked himself why not.

He kept asking the question, over and over, when he got back to his room. He stared at the ceiling while a Knicks-Lakers game played on the television.

What was the worst thing that could have happened? After everything he’d been through, he was afraid of her telling him no.

Why?

Just am.

I shouldn’t be.

But I am. Just am.

18

Jing Yo’s new hotel wasn’t nearly as nice as the first. There weren’t any doormen, let alone armed guards; the clerk had to be summoned from the back office by ringing a tarnished bell on the battered desk at the side of the entry vestibule. The bedsheets, though clean, shaded toward gray rather than white.

Jing Yo wasn’t here for the amenities. Once more, he acted as if he were under surveillance, though now it was more likely that he was being watched by Mr. Wong than by the CIA.

It was all the same in a way. He slept well, certainly better than he had at any time since parachuting into Hanoi, and with the exception of the time with Hyuen Bo, probably the best he had slept over the past six months.

Rest restored his equilibrium. Equilibrium made him confident that he would succeed. And confidence filled him with energy.

Jing Yo rose at four, did his exercises, and meditated. Then he went out for breakfast.

There were bums on the street, homeless people sleeping against the buildings. Many of them — he stopped counting at a dozen. America was a far richer country than China, but in China, these people would be with their families, or at least kept from sight.

They were an inferior, mongrel race.

Jing Yo ordered tea and an egg at a small coffeeshop two blocks from the hotel. The waitress asked if he’d seen the paper. He said no, not realizing that it was an invitation to read one — she handed him the Post-News.

The first few pages were given over to accounts of crimes — murders and robberies. Then there were four pages of stories on movie stars and actresses. The lead was a two-page spread on a singer who’d been hospitalized for drug abuse. The picture showed her nearly naked.

Jing Yo scanned the other headlines inside. It was slow going. He could speak English better than he could read it, and he had to sound most of the words out first in his head, then translate them, as if someone were speaking inside his skull.

But he recognized the word “China” easily enough.

Senator Phillip Grasso has become a key player in the administration’s campaign to drum up support against China.

Grasso is rumored to be coming to New York today or tomorrow to meet with advisers for the President. He is said to be unconvinced.

The story was on the opinion page. Unconvinced about what? Jing Yo wondered.

But he was meeting with advisers. Jing Yo guessed that the scientist would be one of them.

“I wish to buy this newspaper,” Jing Yo told the waitress, stopping her as she passed.

“The Post? That rag’s been free since it combined with the Daily News two years ago,” she said. “Help yourself, hon. More tea?”

The man who answered the preprogrammed number on the cell phone greeted him in Mandarin Chinese.

“I need to speak to Mr. Wong,” Jing Yo told him.

“You will speak to me, and I will relay the message.”

“There is a news item on page O-2 in the newspaper.”

“Which newspaper?”

“The Post-News,” said Jing Yo, flipping the paper to the front. “I believe it is important. I think it will tell us where to find our man.”

“We will be in touch.”

19

The boats rocked gently against the wharf, sheltered from the tide by a long sandbar and an elbow of trees that jutted from the land. The storm was well past by now, and light from the stars shimmered in the space between the waves and hulls. There were seven boats; they needed only two.

“Which ones, do you think?” Zeus asked Quach.

“The largest.”

They all seemed the same size, not much more than thirty feet long, the sort of craft used to take small amounts of merchandise to local markets. More critical than their size were the engines, but simply starting them would not be much of a test.

“We’ll take three,” said Zeus. “This way, if one fails, we can get rid of it.”

“As you wish.”

Zeus pointed to the first three vessels, and the marines moved in to take them.

The three he’d singled out had enclosed wheelhouses, small structures barely big enough for two people to stand in. Two had forward cabins as well. The engines on all three craft started right up, and within a few minutes Zeus’s small flotilla rendezvoused with the Zodiacs just beyond the sandbar. They transferred the flotsam bags and other gear, tied the extra Zodiacs to the boats, and continued south.

So far, so good — if you didn’t count the loss of the Zodiac and two men.

Solt Thi Jan had a large bruise on her forehead. Zeus suspected that she had hurt her arm and maybe some ribs as well, but she wouldn’t let him or any of the marines look at her. She wouldn’t even cough for him. He asked Quach to tell her to try, but Quach just shook his head.

“A big girl,” the Vietnamese spy told Zeus. “She takes care herself.”

“Maybe her lungs are hurt,” said Zeus.

“And how would you change that? You have a hospital?”

Zeus let it go.

Quach guided them to a small cove south of the fisheries so expertly that it was clear he had used it before. When Zeus suggested that Solt and two marines stay with them, Quach refused to even discuss it with her.

“Why would she stay?”

“She’s hurt,” said Zeus.

“She is fine.”

“I don’t know.”

“She is fine.”

The spy said this without any animosity, just a gentle insistence that for some reason Zeus found more difficult to deal with than hostility. The girl watched him talk, saying nothing. Finally he decided it was useless to argue, and had her brought on the boat with him. Christian and Quach took the second. They left two men on the third fishing boat, dividing the rest of the marines between them. The men pulled clothes from the sacks, changing so that they looked like Chinese fishermen. Solt put on jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, and pulled a cap over her head. She looked like a teenage boy, small for his age.

The boats they’d taken were solid, but their motors were considerably slower than the outboards the Zodiacs had used, and by 4 a.m. they had not yet reached the southern tip of Hainan. Zeus therefore modified the plan — rather than going ashore near their target area, they’d stay at sea, pretending to be fishing.

An hour later, they saw the outline of a Chinese destroyer in the distance, its silhouette framed against the gray twilight of the false dawn. Zeus recognized it from the silhouettes he’d studied as a Type 051 Luda-class destroyer: a long, lean vessel with two widely spread smokestacks and a pair of old-style missile launchers mounted amidships. Fairly old — the existing boats dated to the 1970s — the ship was still potent against other surface vessels and would be able to sink Zeus’s small fleet with a few shells from its 130 mm guns.

The few Luda-class ships remaining in the Chinese inventory were used for home defense. If Zeus remembered correctly from the war games, they would normally have been deployed much farther north, generally working in low-threat areas. The ships had limited surface-to-air capability, and their antisubmarine systems were antiquated. But their 130s made them good for naval gunfire support during an amphibious assault.

Which was great. The Chinese would not be surprised that the minisubs had gotten past the defenses, or that the helicopters supposedly carrying the antiship missiles were able to get close enough to fire their weapons.

The destroyer stayed on the horizon as they passed. Zeus stood on the bow in front of the forward cabin, watching the water ahead. The first fishing boats were just starting out from shore, heading toward their favorite trolling grounds. They passed quickly, leaving the three strangers to themselves. They steered their boats a little farther from shore, keeping the island’s gray-brown mass to the left.

A jet took off from the airport to the northeast. It was a commercial airliner.

Business as usual, despite the war.

“Navy,” said one of the marines.

Zeus turned around. A Chinese patrol boat was approaching from behind. Unlike the destroyer he’d just seen, there seemed no doubt that it had spotted them. It was moving at a good clip, and a searchlight blinked on its deck.

“They’re going to board us and look at our papers,” Zeus told the marine captain. “Can you deal with the Chinese?”

“I will talk with them,” said Solt.

It was the first complete sentence in English Zeus had heard from her mouth.

“Are you sure?”

“It is why I am here, Major.”

“Get the bags in the nets and put them overboard,” Zeus told the captain. “Make sure the nets don’t break.”

Zeus had two choices. One was to try to hide below. The other was to go over the side. The side seemed a better bet.

He stripped off his shirt and pants, leaving just the wet suit, then lowered himself into the water, hanging on to the rubber tire that served as a bumper.

Zeus’s teeth immediately started chattering. A head appeared over him, motioning. At first he wasn’t sure what the marine was trying to tell him. Then he heard the loud rumble of the patrol boat’s engines, and realized that the ship was cutting in front of them and he’d be exposed to view.

He worked his way to the stern, moving under the platform at the fantail. Grabbing a line that hung off the boat, he wedged his feet against the hull, hoping to ease the strain on his arms.

Not more than a minute later, he saw the Chinese navy ship passing them, turning to port as it circled before them.

His boat’s engine suddenly started. Zeus pushed to the left, still holding the line but worried that he was going to be thrown into the propeller.

“What are you doing?” he yelled.

There was no answer from above, but the engine quickly dropped to idle. The short burst had sent the boat toward shore, angling it so that unless the Chinese patrol boat turned around again, it could only come up along its starboard side.

“Here!” yelled one of the marines, warning Zeus that the patrol boat was nearly there.

The marines could take the ship. There’d be thirty men aboard at the most. Catch them off guard, they’d be easy pickings.

Too late for that now. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier?

The vessel put down a small utility boat. A minute later, Chinese sailors climbed aboard the stolen boat, yelling instructions to the marines. Zeus could hear Solt’s voice above the din of the patrol boat’s engines, yelling back at them in Chinese.

He pushed closer to the hull. The bow of the patrol boat was just visible beyond the stern.

The yelling got louder. Zeus took that as his cue to duck beneath the waves. He closed his eyes and held his breath for as long as possible. Finally, his lungs about to burst, he surfaced, took a gulp of air, a second one, then ducked back down.

The second time he came up, he saw a hand over the side, waving.

He ducked back down quickly, and stayed until the pain in his lungs had spread to his mouth and nose, and his chest felt as if it would implode. He put his head up and took another breath.

The boat jerked forward. Zeus reached for the line, but couldn’t find it. He started to swim for the tire on the side, but after two strokes he realized it was too late; the boat was moving too fast.

Just as the patrol boat’s bow came into view, two marines ran to the stern of Zeus’s boat and jumped into the water near him, splashing and hooting. Solt stood above, yelling in Chinese for them to act their age.

The Chinese sailors on the patrol boat waved and shouted at them.

One of the marines grabbed hold of Zeus. “Okay,” said the marine. “It okay.”

“Okay,” replied Zeus. “Okay.”

Back aboard the fishing boat a few minutes later, Zeus thanked the marine captain for sending the marines in.

“Not my idea,” he said. “Ms. Solt’s.”

“Thanks,” Zeus told her.

“The Chinese were surprised there were so many men aboard,” she told him. “I told them they were relatives, and had to earn their keep. But they were not fishermen, and most of the time they were lazing around, or swimming. Then I sent them into the water when I realized the boat would see you.”

“I thought you didn’t speak much English,” said Zeus. “It sounds pretty good to me.”

Solt shrugged.

“You know, you got a hell of a bruise on your forehead,” said Zeus. “Are you okay?”

“I said before, I’m fine.”

“Are your ribs okay?”

“Eh?”

“Your side.”

“You want me to take my shirt off?” She shook her head. “No. Not so easy.”

“I’m not trying to see your tits,” said Zeus. “Come on. Let’s see your ribs.”

Solt hesitated. Slowly, she put her hand on her shirt and rolled up the side.

“God, that looks like hell,” said Zeus. He put his finger on the large purple blotch. Solt winced.

“It’s got to be broken,” he told her. “How far up does it hurt?”

She shook her head. He eased his finger up. Two of the bones seemed to have snapped; she must be in terrific pain.

“Do they have morphine or something like that in their med kits?” he asked her.

“If I take that, my head will be cloudy,” she told him. “I am fine.”

“It’s got to be killing you.”

“I am grateful for your saving my life,” she said.

“Yeah, but that’s not what we’re talking about now. Can you cough?”

“Cough?”

“Yeah. What happens with those is your lungs get screwed up. Cough for me.”

Solt coughed. Even puzzled, she looked beautiful.

“All right. Can you breathe okay? Big breaths.”

She was breathing fine. So it was just a question of managing pain.

“If you won’t take morphine, at least take some aspirin,” he told her. “Your head will be clear.”

“I took some earlier. I am not a fool for pain.”

He smiled at the expression; it seemed pretty poetic.

“Why haven’t you been speaking English?” Zeus asked.

“I had nothing to say.”

“Mr. Quach says you don’t speak it at all.”

“He said I do not speak it well.”

“Sounds pretty good to me.”

“Thank you.”

“You afraid of him? Your boss?”

Solt frowned, but said nothing.

Zeus went and changed in the forward cabin. When he emerged, he found Solt and the marine captain standing at the stern, arms folded, worried looks on their faces.

“What’s going on?” Zeus asked.

Solt pointed to the patrol boat, which was about a half mile away.

“They boarded Quach’s boat,” she said. “They’ve been there a long time.”

“How many sailors were on the patrol boat?” Zeus asked.

“Eighteen,” said the marine captain.

“They are working with small crews,” said Solt. “They have trouble feeding their sailors. The ones who came aboard were skinny. And they asked about food. We gave them some rice we had.”

“How many went aboard the fishing boat?”

Neither the captain nor Solt had seen. Six had come aboard theirs.

“We can take it,” said Zeus. “If we go now.”

The two keys to the operation were speed and taking out the Chinese patrol boat’s radio.

That task was assigned to the marine crouched just aft of the cabin, holding his RPG launcher below the gunwale. He had to strike the radio mast dead-on, preferably without taking apart the bridge below.

The Chinese were either so focused on Christian’s fishing boat or so shorthanded that they didn’t bother posting lookouts on the stern or port side of their ship. It wasn’t until Zeus and the marines were ten yards away that someone emerged from the superstructure aft of the bridge and turned in their direction, spotting them.

The timing was nearly perfect.

“Fire!” yelled Zeus. “Board them!”

The grenade hit the antenna mount and exploded. A second grenade struck the forward gun mount, shattering the side armor, killing the gunner stationed there and destroying the gun mechanism as well.

The boat crashed into the side of the Chinese patrol craft. Zeus stumbled to his knees as he leapt across, his balance upset by the rocking waves. He got up, fixed his grip on his AK-47, then glanced to his right to make sure the rear gunner’s station was still unmanned. With that clear, he left it for Solt to take the gun as planned and started forward.

The machine gun on the starboard side had already been secured by one of the Vietnamese marines, who was using it to pepper the Chinese boarding party. Zeus ran past to the ladder, thinking he was trailing the main boarding party. But instead he ran into three Chinese sailors. Two bursts from his AK-47 took them down. Then something pushed him to the deck, hard — the air shock from an explosion.

He rolled up in time to see the Chinese captain and his helmsman running past him, trying to escape. Zeus cut both of them down, his bullets hitting them in the legs and dropping them like the teeth of a chainsaw gnawing saplings in the woods.

Inside the bridge, he went to the control board and made sure the ship’s engines were still on idle. Then he went back out to the deck, passing the marine who’d been assigned to secure the bridge.

“Keep us close,” said Zeus.

Down on deck, the marines were pulling out bodies from the cabins directly below the bridge. Zeus looked over at Christian’s fishing boat. The marines there had taken out their weapons. Two Chinese sailors were on the deck near the wheelhouse, their hands high.

“Christian? Win? You all right?” yelled Zeus.

Christian and Quach came out of the wheelhouse. Zeus went over to help them aboard.

“You all right?” Zeus asked.

“I’m good, I’m good,” said Christian, who looked more than a little shaken up.

“Very risky thing,” said Quach. “But thank you.”

“It looked like things were getting out of control over here,” Zeus told him. “What happened?”

“They found one of the bags,” said Christian. “Quach told them we’d fished it from the water. I don’t think they were buying it.”

“Did they radio that in?”

“I don’t know.”

Quach went up to the bridge to check on the radio. Solt was already there. With the radio out, they couldn’t be certain that the Chinese hadn’t broadcast for help; they hadn’t heard anything on their radios, but there was always a chance they had missed it.

Only one marine had been injured in the takeover; he’d fallen and broken his arm. Zeus took charge of immobilizing it with a splint and fashioning a sling. When he finished, he came out on deck just in time to see Quach take a pistol and hold it to the head of the one of the two Chinese prisoners. Before Zeus could say anything, both men were dead.

“Why the hell did you do that?” yelled Christian, clambering up from the fishing boat where he’d gone for his gear. “Those men were prisoners.”

“They were liabilities,” said Quach calmly. “We can’t keep them. And we can’t take them back to Vietnam. They’d do the same to us.”

“Damn,” said Christian.

He looked at Zeus. The truth was, Quach was right, as unpleasant as that was to face.

“Let’s get everything together,” said Zeus. “We have a long way to go.”

20

Josh stood at the edge of the airstrip, the helicopter poised in midair behind him. His AK-47 was out of bullets. Kerfer and the other SEALs were in the grass somewhere, down.

He was all alone, surrounded by Chinese soldiers. He kept firing at them, but they didn’t die. They were like zombies, standing in the field, on the runway. The wash of the helicopter’s blades swirled dust around him. He turned, just in time to see the chopper taking off.

Then he woke.

It was five past five.

Josh jumped out of bed and took a shower, finishing just as the water began to turn off. There was a small coffeemaker with a package of pre-measured grounds on the bathroom counter. He poured in a cup of water and turned it on.

The coffee surged through the machine while he got dressed. The first sip was terrible; the second, worse. He left the room, determined to find something better.

Broome was out in the hall, sitting on a chair and leaning against the wall.

“You’re back,” Josh told him.

“Like a bad penny,” said the marshal. “So whatcha doin’?”

“I need some real coffee.”

“Me, too. Hey — mind if I use the john? I gotta pee bad.”

Josh let him in. At least he didn’t smell like Mexican food this morning.

They found a coffee place down the block. Broome groused about the high prices — eight dollars for a medium cup of coffee. Five years before, it had been two, and even that was considered outrageous.

“No wonder there’s so many people in the streets,” he said as they walked back to the hotel. “Coffee bankrupted them. Look at this — they’re two deep over there. And you need guards all over the place. And New York ain’t even that bad,” continued the marshal. “You should see Atlanta. L.A. L.A. is a pit. It was never that good to begin with.”

“You think there’s going to be a war?” Josh asked.

“How’s that?”

“With China going into Vietnam?”

“Nah. They’re just kicking their butts around for a bit. That’s not a real war.”

“You don’t think we’ll be involved?”

“Nah. Besides,” added Broome, “who the hell cares about China and Vietnam? Let them do what they want. It don’t affect us.”

“Yeah,” said Josh.

Josh found breakfast with Jablonski nearly unbearable. The food itself, served in the back room of a fancy restaurant about a block from the hotel, was excellent. But the work was tedious. The speechwriter had him go over the same points several times, each time telling him to say less and less. Josh resisted, but only to a point. He was so tired of hearing himself that he wanted to cut it short as well.

“So what’s the president going to do with this?” Josh asked finally.

“He wants a resolution condemning China.”

“And then what? Do we intervene?”

“Maybe,” said Jablonski cautiously. He glanced at Mara, who’d been sitting silently through the entire session. “What do you think about that, Josh?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Chinese want to take over Asia, Josh,” said Mara. She leaned across the table. “You’ve seen how ruthless they are.”

“I don’t know if they want to take over all Asia.”

She shook her head. “They do.”

“Kerfer thinks it’s just for the oil.”

“Kerfer’s wrong. You said so yourself.”

“Maybe I was wrong.”

“I think we probably all need a little bit of a break,” said Jablonski. “I have more phone calls. I’m still trying to nail down the senator.”

“Why don’t we do some sightseeing?” suggested Mara. “How about the Statue of Liberty?”

“What about Central Park?” said Josh. “I just want to walk.”

“We can do that.”

The last time Mara had been to New York, there was no charge to go into Central Park. Now it was five dollars. The sign said that it was a “requested donation,” but everything about the entrance suggested it was mandatory, with elaborate pay booths and policemen watching the large chain-link gate topped with barbed wire.

Another sign explained that the charge was due to the city’s “ongoing fiscal crisis.” The mayor hoped to rescind it soon.

It was midmorning, but it was already sixty-two degrees. Mara took off her light sweater and tied it around her hips. The trees had started to bud. It seemed closer to April or May than February. Josh started talking about the trees, identifying different species and talking about how they were doing.

The main effect of the rapid climate change had been to increase the amount of rainfall. The wetter growing season had encouraged more disease, Josh said, and he pointed out different kinds of blight as they walked down a path from the entrance. In theory, the longer growing season would also strain the nutrients in the soil, though this wouldn’t be obvious for some time. Meanwhile, bushes and the grass were doing better than ever, thanks to the wet weather.

“And weeds. All sorts of weeds,” said Josh. “It’s a great time to be a dandelion.”

“Damn things are all over my lawn,” said Broome.

“What do you do with them?” asked Josh.

“Pull them the hell out.”

“You ought to think about eating them. They’re supposed to make a great salad.”

“Yeah, right.”

“The climate change isn’t all bad,” said Josh. “It has a lot of different effects. We just have to adapt to them.”

“Yeah, like buy a lot of umbrellas,” said Broome. “I can deal with the warmer weather. That’s good.”

“I wouldn’t get too used to it,” said Josh. “This hot right now might just be a temporary aberration. Using the averages — it’s very misleading. The actual programs that model climate change have a vast amount of variables, but even then they’re really just sophisticated guesses. Hell, if you put the right formulas in, you see that the world will cool down.”

“So what’s the point, doc?” said Broome. “We just tough it out?”

“Maybe. We can slow it down — ”

“It’s that old saying, Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.”

They stopped at a hot dog vendor for lunch, then walked in the direction of the Metropolitan Museum, passing behind the large white building and continuing toward the lake at the center of the park. At the north side, Mara saw a large area of what looked like old ruins, with boards and metal scattered in heaps, and small mounds of dirt and debris in low piles like pimples dotting the barren ground. She thought it was a temporary dumping area, a place appropriated by a city tight on space. But that wasn’t the case.

“Squatter’s field,” explained Broome. “People lived here last winter. A lot of people, when the prices started shooting up. They didn’t want that happening again. That was the real reason behind the fee. So they could kick people out.”

“Where’d they go?” asked Josh.

“There’s plenty of shelters and stuff. It was just temporary for most of them anyway,” said Broome. “We should start heading back. This isn’t the best area anyway. Even in daytime.”

They turned around and headed across the park in the direction of Columbus Circle. The skyline loomed in the distance. Sleek high-rises peered over the older buildings close to the park’s edge. The clouds had thickened, and the tops of the towers were festooned with gray and black wreaths.

They were nearly at the southeastern corner of the park when the first drops of rain started to fall. The rain felt different here than in Asia, Mara thought. A little sparser, more welcome in a way. It didn’t have the acidic smell or taste it had in Malaysia.

“We should get out of this, because it’s going to be a downpour,” said Josh.

“How can you tell?” asked Broome.

“Look at those clouds.” He pointed to a series of dark black clouds on the horizon.

“The subway’s over there,” said Mara, pointing.

Broome wasn’t sure about the subway, but as the rain began to pound heavier, he relented, ushering them toward the entrance. A flood of people had the same idea, and there was a long line for the fare cards. Only one machine was working.

“Twenty dollars for a single fare?” said Mara, reading the sign.

Someone nearby snickered. “Frickin’ mayor,” he said. “Like all the rich bastards, stick it to the little guy.”

Broome just shrugged. He bought two cards because rules prevented more than two swipes at a station.

“It’s kind of a rip-off,” said Broome. “And they expire pretty quick, too. But the city needs money.”

Broome suggested they go down to Little Italy and Chinatown. Mara thought of vetoing Chinatown, expecting trouble, but when they emerged there were no protests or any other outward signs of the trouble in Asia, just tourists walking along Canal and the side streets, gaping at the stylized storefronts. The stores had about as much connection with China as with the King of England, and a good portion of the employees looked to have come from Central and South America, not Asia.

They had an early dinner, finding an Italian restaurant — Mara insisted on Italian — in the small stretch on Mott Street that remained of Little Italy. By now, Josh had become extremely quiet, and Mara wondered if he was brooding over what he was supposed to say tomorrow at the UN, or worried about Mạ.

Jablonski had called twice to say that he was still working on finding a good time to hook up with the senator, but Mara was starting to doubt that the meeting was going to come off. Just as well, she thought. What Josh really needed was a long break, a vacation somewhere safe — somewhere cold, maybe, far away from anything that would remind him of Vietnam. What he’d been through must surely be taking a toll. He needed to decompress.

She wouldn’t mind a break herself. Though there was undoubtedly a lot more to do back in Asia.

Broome’s evening replacement, John Malaki, met them at the restaurant just in time to order. It was amusing watching the two marshals talk — they were nearly polar opposites, though clearly they liked each other.

“Great spaghetti, huh?” asked Broome as they ate. “Best place down here. If you really want Italian, though, ya gotta go up to Arthur Avenue in da Bronx. Or over in Brooklyn. There’s a million places there. Or Staten Island. Nobody knows about Staten Island. But there’s good Italian there. And Jersey.”

The two marshals began debating the likelihood that the Mets would make the playoffs thanks to the addition of Albert Pujols, and whether the adoption of the designated-hitter rule would improve or harm the National League.

Mara tried to get Josh talking about his scientific work, but he gave mostly one-word answers to her questions, and after a while she, too, fell silent.

He came to life, briefly, when they were leaving. A pair of men in suits came inside the dining room, looking around carefully before holding their sleeves to their mouths and whispering into microphones hidden there. A few seconds later, a pair of men in suits walked in swiftly, trailed by a waiter and two more members of a security team, wearing suits identical to the advance men.

“Look at that,” said Josh. “Gotta be mobsters, huh?”

“Nah,” said Broome as they walked out to the waiting marshal car. “Just Wall Street guys. Worried about kidnapping. The usual stuff.”

“Oh,” said Josh, clearly disappointed.

21

Jing Yo spent the day mostly in wait.

He got hardly any sleep. He could feel his enemy nearby, but the sensation was one of frustration and failure, of worthlessness. He knew the scientist must be close to him, almost in the next room. Yet he was very far away.

A story in the morning newspaper, this time the Wall Street Journal, confirmed his hunches. The story declared that there were rumors of atrocities in the China-Vietnam border conflict, and these rumors were likely to be brought up at the UN when the president spoke on Friday. The paper speculated that the president would offer proof that they were real.

Or the paper said that the president had to offer proof to be taken seriously. Jing Yo wasn’t sure which. But the scientist would be plenty of proof.

Where was he? Jing Yo walked uptown and then east to the UN. The crowds were gone, or hadn’t gathered yet, but there were fresh barriers, this time several blocks away. The police turned back everyone a block away unless they could prove they either lived in the neighborhood or worked at the UN. Jing Yo tried three different approaches, mentally recording everything that happened. Coming from the north would be the easiest, he decided, but it would be better to have a worker’s ID than a resident’s. Workers were questioned less.

There were plenty of work trucks on the surrounding blocks. He could grab a driver, take his license. Though it would be better to have his own license.

Jing Yo continued his survey of the area, growing more and more restless. He began to doubt his instinct, and the inexplicable feeling that his foe was nearby. Logic dictated that the scientist would be in Washington, at the CIA, being debriefed by government officials. He might already have made a video statement. It might be too late to prevent him from doing harm.

Of course it was too late for that. And to Jing Yo, it was irrelevant. He cared only about killing the scientist. That was his mission. Everything else was irrelevant.

Wrath was all he was after. Revenge.

And yet, that was the greatest temptation, the sin of ego, a turning away from the path. He was motivated by anger, not by his allegiance to the one true Way. And what good came of that?

Jing Yo had heard nothing from Mr. Wong by noon. He moved westward on the island, deciding to seek out a place where he might obtain a false ID, and perhaps a weapon, in case he had to act on his own. He had two important handicaps: his difficulty with the language, and his lack of knowledge about the city.

It would be foolish to go up to a person on the street and ask where he could get a phony license. And even worse would come from asking where to buy a gun in a city where owning one was against the law.

He thought of making himself a target for a thief and then taking his weapon from him. But perhaps he looked too little like a victim: for all the stories and rumors of crime run rampant in the city, no one approached Jing Yo or even menaced him with a stare. He found a store to stay in while it rained, leaving as the shower began to diminish a half hour later. By 2:45, even the mist had cleared, though the sky remained overcast.

At 3 p.m., with still no word from Mr. Wong, Jing Yo went to Central Park, he found a large rock outcropping with no one nearby and sat to make a phone call.

Someone picked up before the second ring.

“What has happened?” asked Jing Yo in Chinese.

“What?” said a voice. It answered in Chinese, but was different from the one that had answered the phone the night before.

“Have you found him?” asked Jing Yo.

“We are working. You will wait for your instructions.”

“Perhaps he is in Washington. Let me go there.”

“When we have an assignment, we will tell you.”

“It may already be too late,” said Jing Yo.

“Time is not your concern. You will do as you are told. No longer call this number unless it is a true emergency.”

The line clicked dead. Jing Yo put the phone in his pocket, slid down the rock, and began walking once more. He found himself at the entrance to the zoo. He paid the separate admission — surprised to receive change — then wandered through the exhibits.

The rain forest made him long for Vietnam, and for Hyuen Bo.

Jing Yo left the park and walked in the direction of his hotel. He was a block away when a black Hyundai Genesis L pulled up to the curb next to where he was walking. The rear window rolled down.

“You will join me please,” said Mr. Wong from the backseat.

The backseat of the stretch sedan had three flat-screen displays embedded in the false seat back below the glass separating the driver and passengers. Each one was tuned to a different television news station, Fox, CNN, and MSNBC, from right to left. The volume was off, but a Chinese translation of each show’s sound track ran across the bottom of the screen.

“Would you like some tea?” Mr. Wong asked as the car pulled from the curb.

“No, thank you.”

“How have you spent your day?”

“I have walked around the city.”

“Thinking about your assignment?”

“My mind was not quiet,” answered Jing Yo. It was an answer the monks would give.

“Then it was productive,” said Mr. Wong. “Problems must be attacked from many directions.”

That answer was also one a monk might give.

Jing Yo looked at the screen on the left. An analyst was talking about the price of oil, which had risen fifteen dollars a barrel during the day. The change was considered minor.

“Your theory about the UN is an interesting one, and has perhaps borne fruit,” said Mr. Wong. “We have obtained the senator’s schedule from a friend. It has several stops in the area, tonight and tomorrow, before he goes to the UN.”

“I understand.”

“If you follow him, your scientist will perhaps meet him. But it is possible he will not.”

“If he meets him, I will be there.”

The edge of Mr. Wong’s mouth turned up slightly.

“You are said to be a most capable man, Jing Yo. Worthy of great trust. But there were problems in Vietnam.”

“There were difficulties.”

“You were on the wrong side of the people there?”

“I did nothing to offend them, except my job.”

“Their attitude toward you was a mystery?”

“Yes,” said Jing Yo.

“And your commander: he may feel you a great warrior, but he is not your friend.”

“I need only orders from him, not friendship.”

“What would you do if you were ordered home?”

Jing Yo considered the question. It was an obvious test, but what did Mr. Wong really want? A lie, so that he could satisfy himself that Jing Yo would do what he was told — or more likely, so he could report back that Jing Yo was still a faithful soldier? Or the truth, so that he could properly judge his character?

Jing Yo decided that he could not tell, and because of that, he admitted that he would disobey the order.

“Why is the matter personal?” Mr. Wong asked.

“The scientist murdered a companion.”

“You speak of murder in war?”

Jing Yo did not explain the circumstances. Finally, Mr. Wong continued.

“In this matter, your interests and your country’s interests lie in parallel,” he said. “But you must be careful. Putting yourself ahead of your country is not desirable. You know that from your apprenticeship.”

Jing Yo finally realized that Mr. Wong had himself trained in Shaolin. It should have been obvious, he realized now — but the most obvious things were always the last to be learned.

“I am a prisoner of my ego,” Jing Yo admitted, lowering his head in shame as he would have at the temple.

“We are all, in one way or another,” said Mr. Wong softly.

Mr. Wong had the car drive him to Queens. They turned onto local roads immediately after the bridge, threading their way onto a residential block midway between Astoria and Long Island City.

“This opens both doors,” said Mr. Wong, handing Jing Yo a small silver-colored key. “You will find everything you need inside. One last thing — your phone. You no longer require it.”

Jing Yo handed over the phone, then got out of the car. Mr. Wong lowered the window.

“Thank you,” Jing Yo told Mr. Wong.

“Remember your training,” said Wong. “And be true.”

The building was a small two-family row house. The key was to the apartment downstairs; there appeared to be no one living upstairs. It was sparsely furnished with generic furniture; it would have been difficult to guess the ethnic background of the person who lived here.

A satellite phone sat on the kitchen table. Jing Yo turned it on, then put it in his pocket.

At first, Jing Yo thought that the place was simply “clean” — an empty shell where he would wait for orders. But as he began to examine it more closely, he realized that it was in fact outfitted specifically for him. The closet in the rear bedroom had a variety of clothes in his size, from casual to formal suits. The ones that had been made for him by the tailor had been transferred here, and supplemented with others. Underwear and socks in his size were in the dresser drawers. Two pairs of shoes, one dress, the other casual, sat in the closet. There was a wallet in the small box in front of the bureau. Inside the wallet was a set of identification cards, business cards for several professions, credit cards, and a thousand dollars in bills ranging from fives to a hundred. Beneath the wallet were magnetic card IDs, including one that showed he was a temporary translator at the UN, specializing in different varieties of Mandarin Chinese, and another that indicated he was an aide to the Malaysian ambassador.

A nice irony there.

He found a door to the basement in the hall and went downstairs. A door at the far end led to a small backyard, fenced off from the alley behind by a tall, solid fence. The yard was only a few feet deep, and covered with old cement.

The basement was mostly empty, with a small metal kitchen table near the outside door. A set of old flower pots sat in the middle of the table. Closer to the stairs were a washing machine, a dryer, and the boiler. Next to the boiler was an old room used to store coal when the building was new. The door had a padlock, with a key still inserted in it.

Metal shelves lined the walls. On the shelves to his right were four pistols, in varying sizes, from a two-shot derringer to a Magnum. There were submachine guns — an FN-P90 bullpup-style gun, a mini-Uzi, and an MP-5N. And there was a Remington bolt rifle, outfitted with sniper scope and small bipod, in a black case that looked as if it were for an electric guitar.

Strongboxes filled with ammunition were stacked on the opposite shelves. At the base was a kit for an RPG-29V rocket-propelled-grenade launcher, with four thermobaric antipersonnel rounds and four rounds designed to pierce a main battle tank’s armor.

Jing Yo took only the Glock 9 mm pistol and the small derringer, locking the door and taking the key with him back upstairs.

The second bedroom had been converted to a study. The desk was an old secretary, packed with books and dictionaries, the sort of thing a scholar might have had in his house before the Internet.

A briefcase sat next to the desk. Jing Yo opened it, and found a custom-built laptop inside. When he booted it up, it asked for a password.

His name in pinyin unlocked it.

There were several programs installed, including a Web browser that connected via a satellite modem card. Jing Yo clicked on an icon for Google Earth. The program zoomed on the house he was sitting in.

The detail was extremely fine — much better than he would have seen with Google. As he moved the cursor, he saw a time stamp at the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. The image had been taken earlier in the day.

He opened the Web browser and examined the bookmarks. One led to Senator Grasso’s calendar, apparently posted on an internal Web site used by the senator’s staff. Others led to pages with information about the places where the senator was due to appear the following day: a Catholic school on Long Island, a science museum in Queens, and the UN.

As he examined the links, Jing Yo’s stomach began to growl. He’d skipped lunch and forgotten dinner.

He got up and went to the refrigerator. It was stocked with a variety of food. He took out a frozen pizza and began to preheat the oven. As he waited for it to reach temperature, he noticed a coffee cup with two sets of keys on the counter beneath the cabinet. One set said Ford on it; the other was blank, but looked to him as if it went to a motorbike.

He placed the pizza in the oven, then went out to the front stoop and looked up and down the block. There was a Ford Taurus parked across the street. He walked over slowly and, after making sure no one was around, placed the key in the lock.

It didn’t fit.

He spotted a pickup truck near the corner, but decided not to try it when he saw some people approaching.

Jing Yo turned the corner and continued walking. He’d have to wait until it was much darker to check the truck. He spotted an alley up on his left and, realizing it must be the one behind the house, turned down it.

Cars were parked along the backs of the property, with just enough room to back out without scraping one another or the tall fences on the other side.

There was a van parked at the back edge of the house where he was staying. The key opened it.

The scooter was in the back. The registration documents were in the van’s glove compartment, as was the key for the storage case between the front seats. Jing Yo opened the case and discovered a pair of boxes. One had a hand-held GPS unit. The other looked similar, but when activated flashed only a single-word message:

Searching…

It was a locator unit, used to track shipments. In this case, Jing Yo suspected, it would help lead him to the senator.

“If I fail at this,” Jing Yo thought as he returned to rescue his burnt pizza from the oven, “the fault will be only mine.”

22

Now that they had the Chinese patrol boat, it was easy to scout the harbor area, though Zeus was careful to keep the ship well away from other military vessels. They moved east slowly, Zeus and Christian both scanning carefully with their binoculars.

There were so many landing craft jumbled together that it was impossible to get a precise count. The preparations seemed far more ad hoc than an American or NATO operation would have been. They were using much smaller boats, more like what would have been seen during World War II than those favored by current NATO planners. The support craft that the U.S. would have used — most notably the large amphibious-warfare ships that were essentially helicopter carriers — were nonexistent. Then again, the Chinese already had a substantial fleet out in the water to the south, where presumably they were going to invade. They would be able to use the airports on Hainan and the mainland for support.

The airport at Sanya remained open to civilian flights, with a steady stream of airliners coming in and going out. But it was also being used for military sorties — Zeus saw two flights of J-8 fighters land in the hour or so it took for them to sail leisurely across the outer harbor.

Leisurely being a relative term.

Their pass complete, they moved the ship farther offshore, reasoning that the farther away it was, the less likely it was to attract attention. They moored the fishing boats nearby. The marines took turns sleeping, trying to get some rest for the operation later that night.

Wiping out the radio had been necessary to avoid being detected, but now it was needed to monitor broadcasts and figure out if the Chinese authorities were concerned about the missing ship. Christian went to work rigging up a substitute antenna. It worked well enough to pick up transmissions on the standard Chinese navy frequencies, as well as some other chatter on the general maritime bands.

The main com handset had also been damaged in the battle. Christian also rigged a substitute that seemed workable, though Zeus put off testing it until absolutely necessary — no sense taking the risk of drawing more attention to themselves than they had to.

If he weren’t so obnoxious — or maybe obnoxious in a different way — Christian might be a decent officer, Zeus thought. But he seemed always to be doing something to rub Zeus the wrong way.

After covering the damage done to the superstructure with a tarp, one of the marines found some gray paint to make it less noticeable from a distance. Christian complained about the smell as if it were the most putrid scent he’d ever taken a whiff of.

Worse, as Zeus finished sketching out the basic layout of the Chinese ships, trying to figure what their easiest target would be, Christian began beefing that technically, he, rather than Zeus, should be in command of the mission. Zeus gave him a dirty look, then went on with his work.

“Seriously, Zeus. You think you’re better than me. I graduated at the top of the class. Not you.”

Fortunately, they were alone. Zeus continued to ignore him.

The most vulnerable parts of the force were located at the two extremes of the secondary harbor, away from a pair of gunboats that sat at its mouth. Striking some of the landing craft there would not be terribly difficult, and if they blew up the gunboat at roughly the same time, the effect would be dramatic.

“So why does Perry like you better?” insisted Christian.

“Maybe because I don’t whine about the smell of paint,” said Zeus. “Or brag about the grades I got in kindergarten.”

“You’re calling the Point kindergarten?”

“Want some coffee?” Zeus asked, putting his pencil down on the chart table where he’d been working.

“You’re not going to answer?” Christian said. “It’s a serious question.”

“I’m sure it is. Coffee or not?”

Christian frowned. He was serious. He didn’t get it at all.

“Stop acting like a jerk,” said Zeus.

“I don’t think I am.”

“You are.”

“I just don’t get it.”

Well maybe that was the first step toward recovery, Zeus thought: the admission of ignorance.

“We’ll discuss it another time,” said Zeus. “Coffee or not?”

If there was coffee in the galley, Zeus couldn’t find it. There was plenty of tea, though, and he settled for that. Solt came down while he was waiting for the water to boil.

“Mr. Quach wants you,” she told him. “Ship nearby.”

Zeus turned off the kettle and went up to the bridge. A Chinese destroyer, possibly the one they had seen earlier, had appeared on the horizon to the west.

“They’re hailing us?” Zeus asked Quach.

“We haven’t heard. But we don’t know whether to trust the radio.”

“Let’s pretend we’re busy. Take us over to the fishing boats,” Zeus told the helmsman.

The destroyer kept coming. The marines, dressed in sailor uniforms, made a show of boarding the fishing boat. Meanwhile, Christian and the marine captain manned the forward and rear gun turrets, ready to rake the larger ship if necessary.

It would be a desperation move. Even though old, the destroyer was much larger than the patrol craft, and while they could shoot up the bridge easily enough, disabling all of the destroyer’s guns would be virtually impossible. Meanwhile, even if the destroyer’s complement had been reduced proportionately as the gunboat’s had, they would still be outnumbered four or five to one.

Quach played with the radio, scanning the frequencies and trying to conquer the squelch, desperately trying to hear if they were being hailed. Finally, with the destroyer closing to fifty yards, he heard it hailing them.

“This is patrol vessel 2328,” he said in Chinese. “We are conducting our patrol.”

“Do you require assistance, 2328?” asked the radioman aboard the destroyer.

“Negative. The fishermen are stupid and ignorant, but present no problems.”

“Why didn’t you answer earlier?” asked a different voice, deeper and more scolding. Zeus gathered that it belonged to the destroyer’s first mate or captain.

“The captain has ordered the mate to re-inspect the radio,” said Quach.

“Your mast has been damaged?”

“We have been due for repair for three weeks,” said Quach. “Since our accident. Our captain has low priority with the fleet.”

“Be more alert next time,” scolded the radioman.

The destroyer passed so close to one of the fishing boats that from Zeus’s angle it looked as if it were going to collide.

“Did they buy it?” Zeus asked Quach as it cleared.

“For now. It’s not rare for maintenance to go a long time, especially if the vessel’s captain is held in low esteem.”

Zeus watched the destroyer turn off, making a wide wake as it headed back to the southwest. It was funny — in the computer simulations, he tended to think of the destroyers as relatively small assets, of little use. Here it loomed huge.

“You are a good gambler,” Quach told Zeus after the destroyer disappeared behind them. “You would make an excellent spy.”

“Gambling’s easy when you’re desperate,” said Zeus. “Problem is, sooner or later the odds nail you right between the eyes.”

Around three in the afternoon, Zeus began planning where to set demolition charges on the patrol boat to make it look as if it had been hit by a torpedo. The marine captain, realizing what he was doing, began arguing that they shouldn’t blow it up at all.

The patrol boat represented a large prize — if it was brought back to Vietnam, it would be a substantial addition to the fleet. He also thought it would make getting back much easier — the Chinese wouldn’t stop one of their own ships. By the time they realized it was missing, the raiding party would be in Hai Phong.

“Our job isn’t to steal their ships,” Zeus told him. “We have to make them believe they’re vulnerable to attack. If they think the patrol boat was blown up by submarines, they’ll believe every one of those landing craft over there, and the troopships around them, are vulnerable. Even better, they’ll worry about their aircraft carriers. They’ll hesitate. They may even call off the invasion. That’s our goal. That’s why we’re here.”

The captain began pressing his case with Quach in Vietnamese. The spy listened a little more intently than Zeus would have liked.

“The fishing vessels are a better way to escape,” Zeus told them. “They’ll be looking for military ships. Even the Zodiacs. They’ll have every asset out. You don’t think they’ll notice a patrol boat that’s not where it belongs?”

“They have not stopped us so far,” said the captain.

“That’s because they see us patrolling. We just came pretty damn close. Eventually, we’ll miss something and they’ll come over to see what the hell is going on. We may have missed it already. We’re pressing our luck, believe me. Mr. Quach, tell him.”

“The ship would be a big prize,” said Quach.

“What good will it be against a Chinese aircraft carrier?”

That logic seemed to settle it, though the marine captain clearly wasn’t happy.

“They’re getting greedy,” said Christian a little while later, as they stood on the fantail eying a pleasure boat passing about a half mile away. “That can be fatal.”

“Yeah.”

Zeus knelt down and opened the box with the timers. They were primitive, though undoubtedly reliable. Their fuses could only be set an hour in advance. That made getting off the ship a little tight, but it wasn’t an insurmountable problem.

“What do you think of this boat?” asked Christian.

Zeus rose. Still holding one of the timers in his left hand, he took the binoculars in his right. There were two men in the boat. The men seemed a little too intent to be just taking a pleasure cruise, but they weren’t headed in their direction.

“I thought the Asian mind always followed orders,” said Christian. “Does it apply across the board, or is it because we’re white?”

Zeus focused on the men. They seemed to be looking in his direction, but that might just be curiosity.

“You listening?” Christian asked.

“Vaguely.” He handed the binoculars back and turned around just in time to see the marine captain and three of his men emerge from the cabin with rifles. “Shit.”

“You will not plant the explosives on the ship,” said the captain. “You cannot do it.”

“You’re being foolish,” said Zeus.

“If you were to die, it would be easily explained,” answered the captain.

“Hey, relax,” said Christian. “This isn’t that big a deal.”

“What do you mean, big deal?” asked the marine captain.

“I mean it’s not a problem.”

Christian reached over to the timer Zeus had in his hand. “Put it down, dude. Come on.”

Zeus let Christian take it.

“It ain’t worth your life,” said Christian. “Or mine.”

“We will take the timers and the explosives,” said the captain. “I am sorry, Major. But this ship is too important to lose. I hope you understand.”

“I don’t understand,” said Zeus.

“I am very sorry.”

23

Josh slept for nearly ten hours, without dreams that he remembered this time. It was a deep sleep, but it didn’t leave him relaxed or at ease. Instead, his body ached when he woke up, his muscles cramped and twisted.

He just wanted to get the whole damn thing over with. He just wanted to go home.

Where was that, though?

The Midwest, where he’d grown up. Where his parents had been murdered.

God, how dark his life had been.

He thought about Mạ. He was really looking forward to seeing her, though he still had a lot of doubts about whether she should talk or not.

God, she’d had just as horrible a childhood as he had.

But he’d overcome it. Or at least dealt with it.

She would, too.

Josh took a quick shower — the only kind possible — then got dressed. Broome was outside once again, reading his newspaper. He had a cup of Starbucks coffee waiting for Josh.

“Figured you’d like a shot of joe,” said the marshal, handing it to him. “Sleep okay?”

“Like a baby, thanks.”

“Babies sleep like crap,” said Broome. “At least mine did. Mara’s downstairs, with that guy Jablonski. Just went down. They were going to wait for a while before waking you up.”

“Aren’t they nice?” said Josh sarcastically.

“There’s the prince,” said Jablonski when Josh and Broome entered the lobby. “Ready for breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you ought to get dressed for the presentation,” said Mara. “The schedule’s going to be tight.”

“What schedule?” said Josh.

“We’re going to meet the senator at eleven ten at the New York Hall of Science in Queens,” said Jablonski. “Then we’re going to come back to Manhattan and meet the president before his speech. He wants to go over a few things with you.”

Josh looked at Mara. She was wearing a dark black skirt that fell to her knees, with a matching jacket.

“You look nice,” he told her.

“Thank you. Mr. Jablonski picked it out.”

Josh felt a slight twinge of jealousy.

“No, actually my wife,” said Jablonski. “Very professional looking.”

“I’m with the State Department,” she told Josh, winking. “Public relations.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, let’s get you ready,” said Jablonski, taking Josh’s elbow and steering him toward the elevator. “Let’s run through your speech, and there’re a couple of things I want to tell you about the senator. First of all, he has an ego the size of Mount Rushmore. Never interrupt him. And never answer your cell phone or text a message while he’s talking.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“That’s a start,” said Jablonski.

“So basically, this guy thinks he’s God,” said Mara.

“No, he thinks he’s a senator,” said Jablonski. “That’s a whole rung higher than God.”

24

Jing Yo turned, off the Long Island Expressway, following the GPS’s directions toward the high school in Jericho where Senator Grasso was to appear at 9 a.m. He had more than two hours to get into position, and he drove slowly, looking around, trying to memorize everything he saw, comparing it to what he’d seen the night before.

It’d be easiest to take the scientist here. There was a parking lot right across the street where Jing Yo could park and watch. Once he identified his car, the rest would be easy. He could take him then or, more likely, get him when he returned from the building. If he was with the senator, so much the better.

The problem was, Jing Yo didn’t know if the scientist was going to be here. The senator’s schedule noted that a meeting was supposed to be arranged to talk to an expert “prior to UN.”

“TBA” was the annotation.

TBA. Jing Yo had had to look the abbreviation up on the Web. “To be announced,” it said. Or “to be arranged.” So the appointment was still tentative.

If he had to kill him at the UN, he would have to use his bare hands. The bookmarked references made it clear that security would be very tight, even for employees. Jing Yo’s passes would take him pretty much anywhere he wanted to go, but even a diplomat could not bring a gun into the building.

The school, on the other hand, would be easy. It was not yet in session, but there were already teachers and other staff members inside. A pair of policemen stood at the front, looking bored.

Jing Yo swung through the parking lot and went back onto the street, continuing to a second minimall a few hundred yards away. He pulled in and took out his laptop.

The senator’s schedule had been updated. The meeting with the scientist was now on it, an addendum beneath the entry to the senator’s second appointment of the morning, an 11 a.m. presentation at the New York Hall of Science, where the senator was being thanked for obtaining a federal grant.

CHINA/VIET BRF — J. MACARTHUR — 11:10

Jing Yo put the laptop into sleep mode, then backed out of the parking space.

“New York Hall of Science,” he told the GPS, even though he thought he could remember the way.

25

Washington, D.C.

One of the perks of being president was never having to wait at an airline gate for the flight to leave. Air Force One was always ready when you were ready.

On the other hand, getting to the airport could be a major hassle, especially when you couldn’t just hop aboard Marine One. Even stripped to its essentials, the presidential motorcade made the process a bit cumbersome — though at least it didn’t have to stop for traffic lights.

But this morning’s trip through the Washington suburbs was President Greene’s fault, a direct result not just of his decision to take the little girl to New York with him, but of his opinion that Mạ should be allowed to sleep as late as she wanted. So rather than having Turner Cole take her to the air base and meet them there, Greene decided he would stop off at Cole’s house and take her himself.

Cole’s house was, in fact, very close to the airport, which calmed the Secret Service objections about the arrangements, at least to the point where the agents didn’t protest for too long when Greene told them in the morning that they were making an unscheduled stop. In his short time in office, Greene had made a habit of overruling his bodyguards. To hear them tell it, he had already vetoed their arrangements and advice more than any three of his predecessors.

It might very well he true. Having survived a shooting war, not to mention Washington itself, he knew a thing or two about risk taking.

Picking up Mạ himself, Greene decided, would give him the chance of talking to her alone for a while in the car. He needed to build a rapport. It wouldn’t be tough; he was a great grandfather. All his grandkids said so.

The limos stopped in front of the brick colonial. Secret Service agents were already spread out on the lawn. The front door was open; Turner Cole stood centered in it.

Greene got out. He was going to do this right — this child was going to see exactly how grandfatherly he could be.

Hell, maybe they’d take in an amusement park over the weekend. It had been ages since he’d been on a roller coaster. He loved those damn things.

“Mr. President, very good to see you this morning,” said Cole as Greene strode up the walk.

“Turner. So, where’s my little girl?”

“She’s upstairs, sir. Uh…”

Greene didn’t like the sound of that “uh.” “Out with it, Cole,” he snapped.

“Sir — ”

“You might want to get in the residence,” suggested one of the nearby Secret Service agents.

Greene stepped inside.

“Mạ is upstairs,” said Cole, still mispronouncing the name. “She, uh, she’s a little resistant.”

The translator and the psychologist, along with a CIA officer, two federal marshals, and some of the Secret Service detail, were standing in the living room. Cole’s wife had taken the children to school. A nurse was upstairs with Mạ.

“All right, the president wants the entire story,” said Greene, addressing the small crowd. “And he wants it unvarnished. This is a no-bullshit zone. Out with it.”

“Well, the psychologist seems to feel that reliving the — going back over what happened to her family would be traumatic at this point,” said Cole when no one else would speak. His tone was reluctant in the extreme.

“It’s no more traumatic than what happened to her in the first place,” said Greene.

He looked at the psychologist, a kind of dorky-looking type with unkempt hair and blue jeans.

“You’re the psychiatrist, right?” said Greene.

“Child psychologist, sir.”

“Whatever. What’s the problem?”

“Reliving the trauma, at this point — ”

“She’s not reliving it. She’s telling the world about it. She’s saving her people.”

“Damn it,” cursed Greene, “sometimes individuals have to make sacrifices for the better good.”

“She’s already made a hell of a sacrifice,” said the psychologist. “With respect.”

“Maybe we could tape her talking,” said Cole. “Not bringing her in front of all those people.”

“Where is she?” demanded Greene. “Upstairs?” He started for the steps. “I want to talk to her. Myself. Now.”

The retinue paraded up the stairs. Cole had given Mạ her own room, sandwiched between the master bedroom and his oldest daughter’s.

“Everybody but the translator stay out,” said Greene. “You, too, Frankenstein,” he joked to the Secret Service agent next to him. “No offense, but you’ll scare the kid.”

“Sir, I — ”

“If I can’t handle a seven-year-old, this country is in serious trouble,” said Greene.

The nurse, who’d been sitting in a rocker, jumped to her feet as Greene came in. Mạ remained sitting on the floor, in front of scattering of wooden blocks, Legos, and a toy kitchen set. She had an airplane in her hands. She looked up at Greene with a puzzled expression when he came in.

“Josh?” she said.

“Josh had to go do some important work,” said Greene, sitting down next to her. As he listened to the translator explain, Greene realized she wasn’t going to understand, no matter what words he used.

“Nice airplane,” he told her, pointing.

She handed it to him. It happened to be an F-4 Phantom.

“Thank you. I used to fly one of these. The stories I could tell.” He circled it around the air, ducking and diving, making airplane noises.

Mạ tucked her elbows against her ribs, apprehensive.

“You saw these from the other direction, huh?” said Greene, suddenly realizing that she was scared of the plane. He stopped flying it and handed it back to her. She took it, then threw it angrily against the wall.

“Bad plane, huh?” said Greene.

The Vietnamese words came back to him as the translator spoke.

“Demon plane,” they meant specifically.

He remembered those words very well.

And then more came back. Everything.

“Tên tôi lá George,” he told the girl in Vietnamese. “My name is George. And you are Mạ.”

“Yes,” she told him. ‘

“Terrible things happened to you,” he continued in Vietnamese, stumbling a little, as he was at the limit of his vocabulary. But the translator didn’t interrupt. “I am very sorry.”

She stared at him.

“Tôi không biet tiêng Viêt,” he said. “I don’t speak Vietnamese very well. I was in your country long ago. During a war. Another war.”

He glanced at the translator, who nodded. He’d gotten the words right.

“War is terrible,” continued Greene. “We have to stop it. You can help.”

“Josh?”

“He’s helping,” said Greene, resorting to English. “Will you help us?”

Mạ looked at him, her eyes wide. She looked like a child on a poster they used as public service announcements against child abuse. The posters had adorable kids, with two-word captions.

Protect me.

It was impossible to protect everyone in the world. As president, he had to protect the most people he could. If he thought too much about individuals, he’d never be able to do his job.

And yet, he did have to protect individuals. Little girls and boys, if he could.

They used to plan the bombing missions over the north meticulously to avoid civilian deaths. It always pained him that critics of the war didn’t realize that. They didn’t appreciate the dangers the pilots subjected themselves to, just to lessen the chances that the inaccurate bombs of the day wouldn’t hurt people like Mạ.

Bad things did happen. That was the nature of war. That was why you did what he was doing, trying to head bigger conflicts off.

Mạ began speaking in Vietnamese. She had tears in her eyes.

“She will help,” said the translator.

Greene rose. “We’ll do it without you, honey,” he said. “Your friend Josh should be able to pull it off. We won’t hurt you again.”

Greene looked at the translator. “You don’t have to translate that. Tell her she’s a brave little girl, and she’ll see her friend Josh very soon.”

28

“They came in the middle of the night. I found out later they were Chinese commandos. They snuck into the camp while I’d gone off into the woods to relieve myself. The next thing I knew, there was gunfire. The entire scientific expedition — the UN’s expedition — was slaughtered. All in their sleep. The bodies were buried, and the site was wiped out.

“A day later, as I wandered… as I moved around the jungle, trying to find my way back to the highway leading to Hanoi, I saw… I came to a village. It was deserted. Well, I thought it was deserted. There was a field above the village. It looked freshly plowed. Then… but when I put my foot into the ground I realized it was, that it had been dug up. I saw something on the surface. I pushed the dirt away with my hands.

“It was a body. Buried. It belonged to a woman. Young, maybe a teenager. She’d been shot in the head. And there were more bodies beneath her. I couldn’t take it. I got sick.

“Later, I think it was that day or maybe the next, I found a little girl. Her whole village…”

Josh stopped speaking. He felt light-headed; his tongue felt as if it were stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“That’s good,” said Jablonski. “That’s perfect. You can just stop there and let it go. The video will be playing. It’s perfect.”

The bastard thought it was a performance. People dead, butchered in their sleep, and he looked at it like a goddamn performance. Points for his political bullshit.

“It’s okay, Josh,” said Mara, touching his elbow. “It’s all right.”

They were sitting in an empty section of the hotel restaurant, reserved by Jablonski so they could talk without being bothered. The hotel had provided a buffet breakfast, but Josh hadn’t bothered with any of it, except for the coffee.

He got up, anxious, angry, feeling as if he was part of something he really didn’t want to be part of. He walked to the serving table, took a new cup from the tray, and pushed it under the spigot of the silver pot. The ornate handle squeaked as he pushed it forward. The coffee sputtered, then streamed out, steam escaping with the liquid.

“I know this is hard for you,” said Mara behind him. “You did everything you could. You’re doing everything you can now.”

“That’s not the point,” said Josh.

Jablonski was still at the table, concentrating on his food and pretending not to hear. Josh tilted his head, then walked over near the door, wanting Mara to follow. He pushed out into the hall, frowning at Broome before walking down to a pair of upholstered chairs sitting by themselves in a small alcove. He sat down. Mara remained standing.

“What’s up, Josh?”

“I just — the whole thing. It’s kinda, it’s like a production.”

“Of course it’s a production. This is a huge event. Millions of people’s lives are involved.”

“It’s not an event. It’s not a show. It’s a war.”

“I used the wrong word,” she said quickly. “We have to save people. China is going to run over Vietnam if something isn’t done.”

“I know that. I don’t want Mạ involved in this.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

Josh looked up at her. The suit looked good on her, but he wondered what she would look like in a dress. She didn’t have a classic female figure. She was too tall for that, with broad shoulders, a little more muscle than the typical woman. But she’d look pretty, he was sure.

“It’s just so… political,” said Josh, flailing for the right words.

“Of course it is. But we have to do this.”

“You’re not…”

She stared at him. Their eyes locked.

“I’ll blow my cover if you want,” she said. “I’ll stand with you.”

He could have kissed her at that moment, jumped to his feet and hugged her, told her he loved her. He could have married her and had an entire future in that instant; he could have died and been content. But instead, he just nodded.

“It’s all right,” said Josh, his voice catching. “I can do it. I just wish the whole damn thing wasn’t so political. But we have to keep Mạ out of it.”

“I’ll talk to my boss. And Jablonski.”

Josh looked down at his hand. He was surprised he still had the coffee cup, and took a sip.

27

After the mutiny, Zeus went up to the bridge, thinking he might try to talk some sense into Quach. But the spy had been placed under guard as well. He shrugged when Zeus came in, and stayed at his post near the radio, listening to the transmissions from shore and other Chinese vessels.

Zeus took his binoculars and went above, watching the water and considering what to do.

At this point, the marines might very well decide to scutde the whole mission, since it would jeopardize their escaping with the ship. If they went that far, then it would eventually occur to them that killing Zeus and Christian was the next logical step.

If it hadn’t already.

They’d probably kill the spies as well. Except that they wouldn’t do that while they still needed to speak Chinese. Which might be the real reason they hadn’t killed the Americans — no sense getting rid of them while they were still useful.

Zeus and Christian would have to escape on their own. They could make their way back to the area where they’d left the Zodiacs, steal their own boat.

The marines might look for them. But the Chinese would be looking for the marines. The boat was a pretty big target. They’d never get away with it.

Assuming the Chinese realized what was going on. They might not. They hadn’t so far.

Maybe he didn’t have to escape. Maybe the marines knew they’d have no problems once they were back — they’d be considered heroes. The Americans’ objections would be insignificant.

It would be a risk for them. Better to escape.

Zeus and Christian had their U.S. passports taped in small plastic bags to their chests. China and the U.S. weren’t at war, and once on shore the Americans should have no trouble — in theory. But they didn’t have any of the necessary paperwork, and just washing up on shore in the middle of a battle in wet suits — that wasn’t going to look good.

Better than turning up MIA. They’d never even be acknowledged.

“How grim is it, you think?” asked Christian, coming up the ladder after visiting the galley. One of the marines was right behind him. Zeus had no idea how much English, if any, the man spoke, but he couldn’t take chances.

“Grim.” Zeus pointed in the distance. “There’s a highway there.”

Christian pulled up his glasses and looked. Did he understand what Zeus was trying to tell him?

There was no way of knowing. Zeus scanned the shore again, mentally calculating the distance. It had to be nearly three miles.

Could he swim that far if he had to?

What did it matter? As soon as the marines saw he was gone, they’d chase him down anyway.

Around 5 p.m., they got a communication from a command unit. The unit was wondering why they had not checked in. The marine captain told Quach not to answer at first, then sent Solt up to ask Zeus for advice.

Zeus went down to the bridge.

“Tell them we’re continuing to inspect some suspicious boats,” said Zeus. “Be as vague but as positive as you can.”

Quach spoke to them for a few minutes in Chinese, apparently satisfying them.

“It’ll be dark enough to set out soon,” Zeus told the marine captain, deciding to try and push up the timetable. “We should get ready.”

“Go over the plan.”

Zeus mapped out the attack he had envisioned earlier, with minor revisions. It called for the two fishing boats to go into the harbor. A team of two men aboard each would swim over and plant charges on the landing boats closest to the open water. The debris would be released nearby and the fishing boats would then retreat. Rather than blowing up the patrol boat — still his preference, he said — he suggested putting charges on the third fishing vessel and leaving some debris nearby. The patrol boat would start westward as soon as the teams arrived back.

“It is a good plan,” said the marine captain.

“Christian and I will take this landing boat,” said Zeus, pointing to the craft farthest west. “Mr. Quach should come with us in the fishing boat, in case we’re stopped by the Chinese.”

“Mr. Quach has to stay with the ship,” said the captain. “Solt will go.”

He assigned one of his men as well. Zeus let him pick the other crew.

“Once you see the explosions, make a transmission that you’ve spotted a periscope,” said Zeus. “Lay down the depth charges from the fan tail.”

“We should be back aboard by then,” said Christian.

“I mean if we don’t make it,” said Zeus, staring at the marine captain.

The captain held his glare for a moment, then turned his eyes toward the deck.

Since the timers they had for the charges were only good for an hour and they wanted the explosions to coincide roughly with the missile attack, leaving before 10 p.m. didn’t make much sense. But Zeus wanted to be on the island before the attack, which meant leaving as soon as possible. And with the marines itching to get out of the area, they set a new H-hour for the explosions: 10 p.m.

They climbed aboard the fishing boats at 1807 — seven minutes after 6 p.m. They would have a little over three hours to get close to the landing ships and set the charges, then return.

Or not.

“I’m surprised they let us go,” whispered Christian as Zeus steered the boat away.

“Maybe.”

Zeus took a wide turn, heading westward. The plan called for him to sail to the west of the city, then tack back, following a pattern they’d observed some of the fishing boats take earlier. But after a few minutes he changed course and headed directly for the landing craft.

“What are you doing?” Christian asked.

“Going to Plan B.”

“B?”

“It’s more like W or X,” admitted Zeus. “Hang on.”

He pushed the engines to full throttle. The marine watching them stayed at the aft end of the cabin, not saying anything. Nor did he object twenty minutes later when Zeus cut the motor and let the boat drift.

“You’re coming with us,” Zeus told Solt.

She looked up at him, her eyes studying his face. She was a beautiful woman, he realized. Very beautiful.

“Will you be able to swim?” Zeus asked.

“Yes,” she said.

They took the bags with the debris with them over the side, pushing off one by one. The night was cloudy and fairly dark, but the boxy shadow of the landing craft stood out against the light from shore. Zeus was the last to leave the boat, watching after Solt as she swam. But within a few strokes she started to pull away, and he ended up being the last one to the landing craft by quite a margin.

“Hey, slowpoke,” said Christian when he got there.

“Set the charges,” said Zeus.

“Ya think? Already done. All we have to do is push the button and the timer starts.”

“Do it.” Zeus swam to the stern of the landing boat and climbed up the ladder with the body bags. He threw the pieces of metal and plastic inside the empty craft, then went back to the water and let the weighted bags sink to the bottom. He pulled a waterproof ruck from the last bag — clothes.

“We’re good?” Zeus asked Christian.

“You bet. I say we get to shore.”

So at least he can add two plus two, Zeus thought. He turned to Solt.

“We’re not going back to the fishing boat,” he told her. “I’m afraid the marines will kill us before we get back to port.”

“I know,” she said.

“I’m sorry about Mr. Quach.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “He’s with them.”

The landing craft were anchored ahout ten meters apart, in long rows. They hopscotched toward shore, resting every few minutes and making sure that there were no patrols nearby. They were nearly to the wharf when Zeus spotted an army truck trolling along the far side.

“We’ll have to look for another place to land,” he told the others. “I think farther east.”

“We should go this way,” said Solt. “We can take one of the small boats and go to the beach.”

“Back by the city?” asked Christian.

“We can change our clothes,” she said.

“You brought some?”

“Under the wet suit. In case.”

“I don’t have any clothes,” said Christian.

“I have yours,” said Zeus. He held up the ruck.

“Well then lead the way,” said Christian.

Solt waited until the truck had turned around before pushing off from the side of the landing craft. The dock she was talking about was nearly a half mile off. Zeus felt tired before he’d taken more than a dozen strokes. He put his head down, willing himself forward.

He’d almost reached the boat when he heard an explosion in the distance. He stopped and turned, looking back in the direction of the landing craft they’d put the charges on. He couldn’t see it because of the other landing craft in the way.

A fireball shot up from the ocean. Then there was a loud crack, and a red glow in the distance where the patrol boat would have been.

“I set the charges on the patrol boat,” said Christian. “I didn’t figure you’d object.”

“When?”

“I did it right after we took it over. You think I’m going to leave something like that for the last minute? All I had to do was press the button.”

“Good work,” said Zeus.

“We better get moving. The landing craft should explode any second. My bet is the fishing boat will, too.”

28

It took Jing Yo three turns around the parking lot to get a feel for the place, matching the photos and brochures he’d seen online with the building’s exterior. Besides the main entrance, there were four different service doors and a loading dock. Each had a card reader; gaining access would require obtaining an employee ID.

Jing Yo parked the van in a cluster of cars near one of the doors, backing into a spot that allowed him to observe the loading dock and another service entrance on the side. He got out, planning to look in the nearby cars for spare IDs — a violation of security protocols so common that it was generally unpunished, especially at a place like the museum, where security was usually not a high priority.

The first car was locked. Not seeing anything that would make it worth breaking into, Jing Yo moved on to the second car. He was just opening the passenger door when a worker opened the service door at the side of the building and walked out.

The man stuck his hand into the pocket of his blue mechanics overalls and pulled out a cigarette. Cupping his hands against the light breeze, he lit up, took a puff, then began walking toward the two heating company trucks parked a short distance away.

Jing Yo watched. He expected that the man would get into the cab of the truck and drive off. Instead, the man went to the back of the truck and opened it, climbing in for some part or tool he needed inside.

Jing Yo left the car and circled back, angling toward the rear of the truck just out of view from the interior.

He would take him with his hands. Shooting would be too loud.

Jing Yo was almost at the back of the truck when the employee jumped out, the vehicle rocking on its shocks. The man looked at him in surprise. Jing Yo was surprised as well — the man was a Chinese-American, which for some reason Jing Yo hadn’t expected.

“I wonder if you have a cig,” said Jing Yo.

“Cig?” The man looked bewildered, and slightly annoyed.

“Cigarette?”

“Yeah, I guess I got one,” said the worker, digging into his pocket. “Damn things cost a fortune,” he added, taking the pack and shaking a cigarette out. “Here.”

It seemed odd to be complaining about your own sense of charity. Jing Yo took the cigarette, then watched the man pull out another for himself. The worker put his parts down — there were small pieces of electronics gear — and lit up. Then he handed Jing Yo the lighter.

“You work here?” asked the man.

“Yes.”

“Nice place, huh? Pay okay?”

Jing Yo shrugged. The other man laughed.

“Don’t worry. I’m not looking to take your job.”

“What are you fixing?” Jing Yo asked.

“The safety cutoff on boiler two is your big problem,” said the man. “You guys are lucky I found the parts in the truck. Boss wanted me to drive back to the warehouse. Forget that, man.”

“Don’t you need an access badge?” asked Jing Yo.

“You mean a card to get in? Nah — I stuck a doorstop in there. You’ll open it for me, right? If I need it.”

“Sure.”

“Have we met?” the man asked. “You look familiar. You live in Kew Gardens?”

Jing Yo shook his head. “I come from China,” he said in Chinese.

“Huh?”

If the man had answered him, or even shown some recognition of the language, Jing Yo might have spared his life. But the man’s ignorance of his ancestral language broke the small spell his Asian roots had cast.

Jing Yo stepped forward quickly and swung his left leg up in a hard kick that caught the worker in the chest, doubling him over. A chop on his neck sent him to the pavement.

Two kicks to the side of his head finished him.

Jing Yo picked him up and put him in his truck. The man was a little shorter than he, and the coveralls didn’t quite fall to his shoe tops. But they were roomy enough for him to move his arms easily, and gave him a good place to hide his pistol.

A toolbox hid the P90 submachine gun.

A woman called to him a few feet into the building. “Where are you going?”

Jing Yo turned abruptly, angry that he was being stopped. “Your heating system has difficulties,” he said.

The woman frowned at him. “I know it has difficulties” she said. “When is it going to be fixed?”

“It may take a few hours.”

“A few hours? It was supposed to be fixed by nine. It’s a quarter past.”

Jing Yo stared at her.

“We have some important guests coming,” she continued. “You have to fix it quickly.”

“We need parts.”

“Get them. And get it fixed.”

The woman turned on her heel and stomped away in the direction she’d come. Jing Yo shifted the mental map he had constructed of the interior: she must be walking toward the staff offices, which he had thought were on the other side.

He went to the stairway door and opened it, as if going down to the basement. But he went up instead of down, coming out on the second floor.

He found himself in the middle of a display of rocket ships. A black man about his age wearing a tan turtleneck and faded blue jeans looked at him expectantly.

“I need to find thermostat,” said Jing Yo, his English failing as he tried to come up with an excuse for being there.

“All the thermostats are in armored cases,” said the man.

“Are there any on this floor?” asked Jing Yo.

“Out near the restroom, over there. Better hurry. There’s a hundred kids on their way into the building. And the first place they go is always the john.”

The left side of the hallway opened on the side of an atrium that rose to the top of the building. Standing by the rails, Jing Yo could see the front entrance. Two school buses were parked in front of the doors. Children were being lined up on the sidewalk.

The door opened. The kids were not nearly as disciplined as Chinese schoolchildren would have been. They spoke loudly and rudely. Their line was barely distinguishable from a mad jumble. The teachers seemed not to notice, talking to one another rather than herding their charges back in line.

Americans really were a doomed race.

The children were directed toward an auditorium at the left side of the atrium, just out of Jing Yo’s view. One peeled off and headed for the stairs. A second and third followed. Soon there were a dozen, running and laughing, heading for the restroom, as the man inside had said.

Shooting someone from here was simple. The P90 would make quick work of him.

Jing Yo wasn’t concerned with getting out. If he got out the way he came without any trouble, then he would. If not — what did it matter? Very possibly Mr. Wong or the government would arrange for his death even if he did escape.

It would be better to die sooner rather than later, rather than waiting to be tortured and questioned, forced to betray his country. If possible, he would die in a firefight. If wounded, he would end his suffering honorably.

“What are you doing up here?”

Jing Yo turned slowly. The woman who had accosted him downstairs was standing in the hall near the rocket exhibit.

“Thermostats,” he told her.

“What?”

“I have to check them.”

“Get moving. Senator Grasso is going to be here in half an hour. Do you even know who he is?”

“He’s a U.S. senator.”

She shook her head, disgusted, and stomped past him. Jing Yo resisted the urge to throw her over the railing. He went to the thermostat, pretending to look at it.

“She’s a bitch on heels, huh?” said the man he’d seen earlier in the rocket display.

Jing Yo didn’t understand the idiom, but realized he should agree. He tapped the thermostat as if he had just finished what he was doing, then began walking toward the stairway at the far end of the open space.

A uniformed guard was standing near the top of the landing as he came up. The guard, in his late sixties with a gray buzz cut and a trim belly, nodded at him. Jing Yo nodded back. The man didn’t have a gun.

He did have a radio, which might be useful.

Jing Yo went over to the thermostat, which was on the wall right next to the opening down to the atrium area. He opened his case and took out a screwdriver, then quickly closed it so that the submachine gun couldn’t be seen.

The screws on the thermostat were star-heads rather than conventional screw or Phillips heads. With the guard watching, he couldn’t fake working on the device without taking it apart. He dropped down to his knee to see if he had the right driver.

“Whatcha workin’ on?” asked the guard as he zipped his bag open.

Jing Yo turned to him. He was still over near the steps.

Stay there, old man, he thought.

“Heating system,” said Jing Yo.

“Thermostats are bad?”

“Just need checking.”

The guard took that as an invitation to come over. Jing Yo pulled a large screwdriver from the bag and zipped it closed quickly.

“These commercial systems a lot different than residential?” asked the guard.

“Different.”

“I used to do some work with a plumber,” said the guard. “Before I joined NYPD.”

“Mmmmm,” said Jing Yo.

He still didn’t have the right screwdriver in his hand. He looked at the thermostat.

“This one’s okay,” he said, pointing.

“How can you tell? Jump them and look for a spark?”

“Yes,” said Jing Yo, hoping that was the right answer.

“Nothing changes, huh? You don’t use a meter?”

Jing Yo had no idea what the proper answer would be, and certainly could not have identified the meter the guard was talking about.

He could grab him by the throat, clamp his hand over his mouth, and drag him somewhere.

Where?

The restroom must be nearby.

The guard gave him a quizzical look.

“Restroom?” asked Jing Yo.

“Just over there.” He took a few steps back and pointed.

Jing Yo took his tool bag and walked over to the men’s room. Inside, he waited near the door, hoping the guard would follow. But he didn’t. When Jing Yo came out, he was gone.

The nearby exhibition halls were empty as well. One was dedicated to exhibits on the human body; the other demonstrated how evolution worked. The displays were in glossy colors. The place looked more like a toy room than a science lab.

He went back out to the walkway over the atrium. The children had been sequestered inside the auditorium, joined there by a second group whose buses had just arrived.

As Jing Yo watched, a limo pulled up to the door, angling in front of the buses. Two men in suits came out from the area directly below Jing Yo, followed by the woman who had scolded him twice earlier. They waited at the door as a young man in his early twenties got out of the limo, holding the door open for another man.

Senator Grasso. Short, balding, with a round belly, Grasso swaggered as he walked the short distance from the car to the door.

Jing Yo unzipped his tool bag. The gun was right on the top, easy to grab.

“Senator, so pleased to see you,” said the woman, her voice easily carrying across the open space. Her tone was 180 degrees from the one she had used to address Jing Yo.

“Maria — so nice to see you again. How is my favorite museum administrator doing?”

The senator pulled her toward him and kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t resist.

“You know the chairman of our board, Dr. Giddes. And my assistant, Ralph Kinel.”

“Doc, Ralph — how are yas?”

The senator didn’t introduce his aide, who stood in the background.

“We have a lot of children here today,” said the museum director. “We thought you’d like to accept your award in front of them.”

“Oh-ho,” said the senator. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“The senator does have a busy schedule today,” said the aide. “He also needs to meet with some aides to the president after the presentation. If there is a room available.”

“Will my office do?” asked the director. “Let’s take a look.”

The director began leading them to the hall beneath the open walkway. The aide looked up and saw Jing Yo. He didn’t say anything, simply stared until Jing Yo stepped back from the rail, out of view.

If the senator had used the main entrance, so would the scientist. All he would have to do was wait.

29

The Grand Central Parkway looked more like a parking lot than a highway. Traffic on the RFK-Triborough Bridge was at a standstill, with two accidents eastbound, one just before the tollbooths and the other on the Queens side near the exit to the local roads.

“Are we going to make it?” Jablonski asked the driver, leaning forward.

“It’ll be close.”

“I’d better call. The only thing worse than being late is not telling Grasso we’re going to be late.”

Josh leaned against the door as Jablonski fished in his pocket for his phone. The aide had unfortunately decided to sit between him and Mara.

“Kevin, this is Will. How are you? Listen, we’re stuck on the damn Grand Central, in the middle of the Triborough. Where are you?… Oh, you’re at the museum already. How’d you get through the traffic?… Too late for us. Look, our driver isn’t sure we’re going to make it, so I thought I’d better give you a heads-up… Uh-huh. It’s very important to the president that the senator speak to Josh. He wants the senator to hear about this firsthand, from the source. The horse’s mouth, so to speak… That would fine. Fine. We’ll see you in the parking lot. Excellent.”

Jablonski killed the phone.

“We’re going to ride with the senator,” said Jablonski. “We’ll meet them at the parking lot. You and I will go with them to the UN.”

“What about Mara?” asked Josh.

“She’ll follow. The marshals will stick with us, right, guys?”

“I’d kind of like her there.”

“I’ll be with you at the UN, Josh. You don’t need me to talk to the senator.”

“All right,” Josh said, pushing closer to the door of the car.

Jing Yo glanced at his watch. It was exactly 11:08. Where was the scientist? The view to the front door was perfect. Jing Yo went down on his knee, next to the canvas tool bag. He put his right hand on the P90, slipping his finger around the trigger.

He was ready. His mind was at peace. Every muscle was relaxed, his breathing slow and full. There was only one true Way, one true existence.

Laughter filled the atrium below. The children were coming out of the auditorium.

One true Way.

A car drove up outside. Jing Yo saw its tires in the glass. If he’d taken the grenade launcher from the truck, it would be over now.

No bother. It was only a matter of moments.

No one got out of the car. It was the senator’s limo.

A second car pulled up behind it.

Security? Had he been seen?

Adult voices filled the hall below. Jing Yo looked down. The senator was walking out, threading his way through the children.

Jing Yo would shoot the scientist and then the senator. He would try not to kill the children, but if they were there, there was nothing he could do.

One Way.

The senator veered to his left, toward the front of the building. He wasn’t going to the office. Something was wrong.

Jing Yo looked toward the door. A person got out of the car behind the senator’s.

The scientist — no, someone else.

“This way, Senator,” said the aide, ushering him out of the door.

It was a trick, thought Jing Yo, jumping to his feet. I’ve missed my chance.

Josh got into the back on the driver’s side; Jablonski slid in from the other end. After seeing so many movies and television shows featuring big politicos and businesspeople being ferried around in outrageously equipped limousines, the senator’s car was a real disappointment. There was no television in the backseat, let alone a computer or a bar; it was little different than the backseat of the marshal car, a plain vanilla Chevy Caprice. Papers and files were piled on the shelf behind the seat, so high that Josh doubted the driver could see out the back window.

“The Triborough’s a mess,” Jablonski told the driver.

“So I hear. We’ll go over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. The Queensboro. It’s closer to where we’re going anyway.”

Josh felt his heart pounding. He looked at his hands. Sweat was pouring from the pores.

“Nervous?” asked Jablonski.

“I guess.”

“You’ll do fine. Just tell what happened. Your own words. Like at breakfast.”

The door on the other side of Jablonski opened. Senator Grasso climbed in, the car rocking with his weight. His aide got in the front seat.

“Billy, how goes the speechwriting?” said the senator as the car pulled from the curb.

“Just fine, Senator.”

“Do you actually write any speeches?”

“I’ve written a few.”

“Was Peaceful Vigilance yours?” Grasso was referring to a speech the president had made two weeks before, suggesting that America’s troops would stay at a high state of alert.

“I contributed a few lines.”

“Now I know you wrote it. Any time you’re being modest like that.” Grasso leaned over. “And you must be Dr. MacArthur, right?”

“I’m Josh MacArthur.”

MacArthur extended his hand. Grasso grabbed it and shook it vigorously.

“Any relation to the famous MacArthur?”

“A great-great-great-uncle.”

“That’s a lot of greats.” Grasso winked at Jablonski. “Good to meet you, son. Are you from New York?”

“Iowa, actually.”

“Looking for votes?” Jablonski asked.

“Always, Billy. Without you working for me, I have to get all the votes I can find. Why don’t you come over to us anyway? Working for that old fart can’t be that much fun.”

“He is the president.”

“All that means is you get to ride in a better airplane. Kevin?” Grasso turned to the front seat, where his aide was working his Black-Berry. “How are we fixed for time?”

“We have to go right to the UN,” said the aide. “There are demonstrations outside. A lot of them. Police should meet us on the other side of the bridge.”

“See?” Grasso turned to Jablonski. “Your guy wants us to vote for a war. You know how unpopular we’d be? We’ll be crucified.”

“The president isn’t asking for a war vote,” said Jablonski.

“Not yet. But this is the first step. Sanctions. Of course, the vote would fail if it were in the Senate, you know.”

“It’s not in the Senate.”

“So what do you want to talk to me about, young man?” asked Grasso.

“I just wanted to, uh, tell you, uh — ”

“Josh was in Vietnam when the war broke out,” said Jablonski. He was behind the lines for a while.”

“Wait — you’re with the CIA?” asked Grasso.

“Uh, no, sir. I uh — I’m a scientist.”

“Scientist?” Grasso was acting confused. Josh realized it was an act — he was trying to draw him out, trying to be clever by playing dumb.

It made Josh angry. And that relaxed him. Slightly, at least.

“I was with a UN team. I was on a grant,” Josh told the senator. “We were in Vietnam. The Chinese came over the border one night. They were in black. Commandos or something like that. They killed the rest of the team. While they were sleeping.”

“No shit?”

Josh finally had the senator’s attention.

“Tell him about the village, Josh,” said Jablonski.

Jing Yo flew down the stairs, the submachine gun in his hand. There was no sense hiding it now. It didn’t matter if anyone saw him now; if they tried to stop him, they were dead.

He reached the first floor and threw himself against the door, expecting to be met by a hail of bullets. But there was no one there.

It hadn’t been a trick. It was a change in plans.

He told himself to remain calm. To be the man he had trained to be.

He could still take the scientist. It would still be easy.

Jing Yo ran to the van behind the building. He started the truck and pulled forward, wheels squealing as he drove to the front lot.

Which way would the senator have gone?

Jing Yo stopped. He reached over to the glove compartment and took out the GPS tracking monitor.

There was a yellow dot on a map, along with a green square showing where he was.

The senator was to his left, going east, away from the UN.

Away from the UN? Was Josh with him? If so, it didn’t make sense.

But it was all he had to go on. Jing Yo looked at the map, then headed for the exit.

“Stay close,” Mara told the marshal who was driving.

“I’m only three cars back, for cryin’ out loud. I can’t help it if that jackass cut me off.”

“There’s a merge up there, and traffic will pick up.”

“He’s only going to Manhattan. I’m sure I’ll find him.”

“Don’t be a backseat driver,” said Broome, leaning forward behind her.

“I’m in the front seat,” she said.

“Yeah, whatever. Watch it or Fred will give you the wheel.”

Mara folded her arms, staring at the traffic on the bridge ahead. She felt bad that she hadn’t gone with Josh, as if she’d chickened out.

That was stupid. The senator wasn’t exactly dangerous. She’d been with Josh in Vietnam, behind the lines — she’d been with him when things were truly bad.

Still, she felt as if she belonged with him now.

Neither the senator nor Jablonski spoke when Josh finished telling them about the vehicles he had seen coming down from Vietnam.

“They were definitely coming out of China,” repeated Josh. “It was a setup.”

“Tell me about that village again,” said Senator Grasso. “That little girl.”

“Mạ,” said Josh.

“Yes.”

“The president is bringing her,” said Josh.

“Really. She’s someone I’d like to meet. Now, you’re sure that village was in Vietnam?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you find it on a map?”

“I’m not positive. I’ve tried, from satellite photos. It’s not easy to get your bearings in the middle of the jungle.”

“I see.”

“I can show you where the camp was, and where I went.”

“Okay.” Grasso leaned forward. “Kevin, we have a map of Vietnam somewhere, right?”

The traffic frustrated him. Jing Yo knew from the sensor that the senator’s car was somewhere ahead, but he couldn’t see it.

He had to merge with a line of traffic to his left. Meanwhile, another stream of cars was moving in from the right a short distance ahead. The traffic was as bad as anything around Beijing. The sound was worse: the heavy thump of bass lines from several nearby cars shook the van, and every so often their disjointed symphony was interrupted by the blaring of horns.

The steel web of the bridge’s cantilever shell rose in the distance. Jing Yo urged the van forward through the traffic, wedging it into the flow as best he could. Manhattan lay ahead, high-rises and office buildings spread along the horizon.

Jing Yo needed to get the scientist before he got over to the other side. If he got too much of a lead once he was in Manhattan, he’d get to the UN before Jing Yo could.

He’d take him there if necessary.

The car in front of Jing Yo eased ahead, then hit its brakes. Brake lights were lit as far ahead as he could see.

The van was useless here.

He opened the window and craned his neck out the side. If the senator’s car was nearby, he’d just jump out and blow it up with the grenade launcher — climb on top of the van and let loose.

He couldn’t see it.

The scooter was in the back. He could use that.

Jing Yo threw the van into park and pulled on the emergency brake. Then he got up and squeezed into the back of the van, hitting the overhead light so he could see.

The senator’s car was undoubtedly armored. He opened the box to the grenade launcher, mounted an armor-piercing shell, then slung the gun over his shoulder. He put the P90 over his other shoulder. He still had the plumber’s coveralls on; the big Glock was in a holster and the derringer was in his pocket beneath them.

A horn sounded behind him. Jing Yo pushed open the door to the van. It slammed into something about midway — the hood of the car that had been following him.

The horn sounded again. Jing Yo pushed the other door open, but it too stopped halfway.

A cab was behind him. The driver was pounding on his horn, screaming out the window at him to move, asking what the hell he was doing.

Jing Yo kicked at the doors, then crouched in the open space between them. He swung the RPG launcher into his arm.

“Move back!” he yelled in English. “Back!”

The cabdriver was too shocked to do anything. Stunned, his hand stayed on the horn.

“Out of my way!” Jing Yo yelled to the taxi driver in Chinese, menacing him again with the grenade launcher.

Firing would have done him no good — at this range, the shaped charge on the grenade’s nose would have sent it right through the unarmored windshield, and very possibly through three or four before exploding.

He put his foot on the door at his left and pushed, wedging it across the bumper and front end of the other car. Then he grabbed the scooter and pushed it toward the door. The taxi driver, meanwhile, had regained enough of his senses to throw the car into reverse. He tried getting around the van to the left. But he hit the bumper, pushing the front of the van sideways into another car before managing to get into a small wedge of open space. The space closed quickly — he hit a pickup truck trying to veer away, bounced off and smacked into the side of an SUV, which in turn hit the car in front of it. Within seconds, the entire bridge was one big pileup.

Jing Yo tumbled to the floor of the van, the scooter tumbling on top of him. Rage took over, flooding past the last bits of discipline that had been holding it back. He grabbed the scooter and pushed it over, falling with it to the pavement. Then he scrambled to his feet, pointed the bike at the left side of the crowded traffic lanes, and got on. He gunned it to life, looking for an opening, desperate to fulfill his destiny.

Mara couldn’t see what was going on up ahead, but clearly there was some sort of crazy commotion — car horns were going off, and suddenly an alarm began to bleat.

She unbuckled her seat belt, opened the door, and propped herself up on the floor ledge, trying to see over the cars and trucks. Someone on a scooter cut sideways across the lane of traffic.

He had a gun strapped across his back. Two guns.

One was a grenade launcher.

Mara ducked back into the car.

“Give me your pistol,” she told the marshal driving.

“What?”

“There’s someone on a bike up there with a gun. Your pistol!”

“What’s going on?” demanded Broome in the back.

“Come with me!” Mara grabbed the pistol from the driver’s holster, then jumped out of the Chevy. Running toward the scooter, she reached for her cell phone to call Jablonski and warn him.

30

By the time the landing craft and fishing boat exploded, Zeus, Christian, and Solt were in a small runabout, racing past the main harbor at Sanya.

“Beach the boat there,” said Solt, pointing to a ledge of rocks at the end of the sand. “We want to get ashore as quickly as we can, before they begin to organize.”

Christian began pulling off his wet suit. So did Solt — she unfurled a thin pair of pants from under the suit, and stepped onto the beach barefoot.

“We should get some better clothes,” said Christian. Zeus had inadvertently taken the wrong set of sailor’s pants, forcing Christian to wear a pair at least two sizes too small.

“Let’s grab a car and get out of here first,” Zeus told him.

“We can get clothes at the hotel,” said Solt, pointing to the high-rise building almost directly ahead. “There is a gym and a locker room. Westerners are there,” she added. “Your size.”

“I hope so,” replied Christian.

The patio was filled with people craning their necks to see the fires out in the ocean. A pair of fighter jets rocketed overhead, and a helicopter approached from the north. Zeus and Christian followed Solt into the building. She walked quickly through the hall, ducking right. She’d obviously been here before.

“That way,” she said. “Meet in the lobby in five minutes.”

“They all have locks,” hissed Christian, spotting combination locks on the row of metal boxes. “What the hell?”

Zeus started opening the lockers that didn’t have locks, but gave up after finding a few empty. He looked at one of the combination locks. It was a simple device, the sort common in high schools and junior high schools across America. He knew they were fairly easy to pick, but he had no idea how to do it.

“Clothes!” yelled Christian near the back of the room. He sounded like a kid who’d found an unexpected cache of toys under the Christmas tree. What he had found was nearly as good: a box of items that had been left behind over the past few months. He began sorting through them, pulling out a pair of jeans. They were loose and not exactly fashionable, but they fit.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” said Zeus, deciding his clothes, though damp, would do.

“Wait — you trust her?”

“Solt? Why not?”

“I got a bad feeling,” said Christian. “She brought us in here. All the lockers are locked — ”

“If she was going to kill us, she could have done it in the water.”

“Maybe we’re her prize,” said Christian. “The way the ship was to the marines. If she’s working for the Chinese.”

“I don’t think so.”

Christian frowned, but followed Zeus out to the lobby It was a large, marble-walled space, with soaring ceilings and four pairs of golden chandeliers. Solt wasn’t there. Zeus walked as nonchalantly as he could to the couch farthest from the registration desk.

“Where is she?” whispered Christian.

“Don’t know. You got your passport?”

“Shit yeah.”

“Emergency money?”

“A hundred bucks ain’t gonna get us off the island.”

It wouldn’t get them a night at the hotel, either. But they could call the embassy, maybe, have some emergency money wired in.

There’d be lots of questions, and not just from the Chinese. But what was the alternative?

Solt appeared across the hall. She was wearing an ankle-length silk dress that seemed to be made for her. It was supported off her shoulders by two thin straps and hugged her breasts and sides.

She’d covered the purple welt on the side of her head with makeup. Zeus guessed she must still be hurting, but you couldn’t tell from the way she walked.

“She’s damn hot, I’ll give her that,” said Christian. “Matala Hardy or whatever that woman’s name was.”

“Mata Hari,” said Zeus, referring to the famous spy.

To Zeus’s surprise, she came over and kissed him. It happened so quickly he could barely enjoy it.

“We should leave quickly,” she whispered.

“Yes, let’s go.”

“How come you get the kiss?” muttered Christian as they walked out the front door.

Solt glanced around the horseshoe-shaped drive, then started down the sidewalk to the right. Zeus and Christian followed.

A taxi came up the driveway.

“Let’s take the cab,” said Zeus, stepping into the road. “Get us away from the harbor.”

Solt went to the driver’s window. He had been dispatched for another guest, but one of Zeus’s fifty-dollar bills easily changed his mind. Within a few minutes they were on the highway, Solt in the front, Christian and Zeus in the back.

Solt told the driver to pull off at the second exit. Zeus didn’t understand the directions until they went off the highway.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

“I need to make a stop.”

Christian shot him a glance. It turned into a glare as they found themselves in the center of town, heading toward a building with a troop truck and several police cars parked in front.

Zeus held his breath as they passed. The cab stopped in front of a bank.

“Keep him here,” whispered Solt. She hopped out. It looked as if she was going to the ATM, but she hurried past and disappeared around the corner.

“Now what?” asked Christian.

“Relax, would you?”

“I’m relaxed. Just relaxed enough to get arrested. If we’re lucky.”

The cabdriver started talking to them. At first it sounded as if he were speaking Chinese. Only after he stopped did Zeus realize the man had asked him something in English. His accent was so thick it was impossible to tell what he’d said.

“I’m sorry,” said Zeus. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“You do business Hainan?” repeated the man.

“Not really,” said Christian.

“We hope to,” said Zeus quickly. “We have plans for importing Scotch. We wanted to, um, set up a trade for fish. For the fish imports. So we’re going to look at, uh, fish farms.”

“All fish stay in China,” said the man. There was an edge to his voice. “Important to feed Chinese.”

“That’s what they told us,” said Zeus. “I respect that.”

“Respect?”

“Chinese fish for Chinese people,” said Christian.

“That is right,” said the driver.

“But the trade would be valuable for the Chinese as well,” said Zeus.

Christian interrupted. “You don’t like Americans?”

“American business — big,” said the driver. “Does not care. Too big. Steal from Chinese.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Zeus wanted to strangle Christian, or at least gag him. Two police cars pulled out behind them and raced past, sirens blaring.

“Where miss?” asked the driver. “We must go. Cannot stay here.”

“She’s coming,” said Zeus.

“Must go.”

“Please stay.”

“Must go.”

The driver started to put the car into gear.

“Hey, this will get you to stay, right?” asked Christian, holding out one of his fifties.

The driver grabbed the bill, then put the car back into park.

“Good idea,” whispered Zeus.

“Yeah.”

The door opened. Solt slid in. She told the driver something in Chinese and they started out. But they found the nearby entrance to the highway blocked. So was the next one. The driver began talking very quickly, arguing with Solt.

“We’re not going to be able to get on the highway,” Solt told Zeus finally. “I’m going to have him take us to the airport. We can get there on local roads.”

“What the hell are we going to do at the airport?” Christian asked.

Zeus shook his head. The driver might not speak English very well, but clearly he understood it.

A few blocks later, it was clear they weren’t going to get to the airport, either. The roads were jammed, either closed or choked with chaotic traffic. Solt told the driver to let them out.

“Do you have passports?” she asked after the taxi had managed a three-point turn and started away.

“We do,” said Zeus.

“We can get a plane to Hong Kong, and from there to Japan,” she said. “If they’re still flying.”

“We don’t have the money. Or baggage.”

“That won’t be a problem. As long as you still have some dollars to bribe the security people with.”

“I have fifty.”

“Me, too,” said Christian.

“Then we should start. If we get separated before the gate,” Solt added, reaching into her purse, “call the number on this business card. Tell them than Mr. Jenni sent you. Do what he tells you. You can trust him.”

“Can we trust you, though?” asked Christian.

Solt looked at Zeus, as if to say, Why do you hang out with him? Then she started walking in the direction of the airport.

31

“I’m willing to believe the Chinese did arrange this,” Senator Grasso told Josh. “I can believe they’d do something like that. They can be very — clever is the word here. Very clever. But let’s say for the sake of argument that they did. Which I’m not disagreeing with,” Grasso added quickly, cutting of Josh’s objection before he could voice it. “I agree. They started this. Not only that, but as the president says, they’re out to take over Southeast Asia. No doubt about it now that I think about it.”

Grasso paused. The blaring of the traffic behind them was so loud he had to raise his voice as he continued.

“But why should the U.S. intervene? Why should we get involved in another costly war? What’s in it for the American people?”

Josh started to answer, but the senator wasn’t done.

“And let’s say there’s sanctions against China. How do they help us? China holds trillions of dollars of our debt. Don’t you think there’ll be repercussions?”

“I think the repercussions will be more serious if we do nothing,” said Jablonski.

Jablonski’s phone rang. He ignored it.

“That’s what the president says.” Grasso swung his hands up, making his point. “But I think he overstates it. I think he wants confrontation. It’s all he knows. What do you think, Josh? Are the repercussions so serious that we should risk everything? What are we risking it for, anyway? Who cares if Vietnam becomes a colony of the Chinese? Do we really care?”

We should care, thought Josh. There was something fundamental — something so unjust and unfair that it had to be countered. But Josh couldn’t find the words to express it.

“I know what you’re going to say,” continued the senator, who really didn’t want an answer from anyone except himself. “We should be idealists. But where has idealism gotten us? Look at Vietnam. You’re too young to know what that was like, but the president isn’t. He of all people should know the limits of idealism.”

Josh turned away from the senator, looking out across the traffic toward the Manhattan skyline — ideals, he thought, made tangible.

Something streaked through the line of cars at the far end of the left lane. A man on a motorbike.

With guns on his back.

Josh stared at the man, sure he was having a psychotic episode.

The man was Asian.

It was a hallucination, his mind flashing back to Vietnam. He was seeing the man who had pursued them, the man who had attacked the helicopter just before they escaped.

He was losing his mind.

It’s real!

“Out of the car!” yelled Josh. He turned and pushed Jablonski and Grasso toward the opposite door. “Senator! Get out of the car! Now!”

Jing Yo saw the limousine to his right as he drove up the narrow space between the row of cars and the barrier dividing traffic on the bridge. He was just past the first tower on the bridge. The cars were bumper to bumper, with no space to get between them.

It didn’t matter now. He had him.

Jing Yo continued on for several car lengths until finally a large panel truck blocked his path. He hopped off the scooter just behind it, pausing for a moment to get his bearings and plan his route to the limo.

The driver of the car next to him was talking on a cell phone. He looked up suddenly, just as Jing Yo’s eyes turned in his direction. The man’s expression was one of profound fear.

The look of a hen before the hawk struck.

Jing Yo felt a wave of disdain. He leapt onto the hood of the man’s car, pulled up his grenade launcher, sighting for the limo. He saw it, and pressed the trigger.

Mara saw the flash and smoke, then the streak toward the limo. The missile crashed into the front of the car. In the same moment, there was a loud crack and an explosion. Flames appeared, giving way to a white cloud that turned brown in the next second.

“Josh!” yelled Mara, raising her gun and firing in the direction the grenade had come from.

Josh felt the rush of a tornado as the grenade blew up the limo. The bridge vibrated madly.

The cone of white-hot gas and metal that had been the warhead set the inside of the vehicle on fire, filling it with flames and hot gas. Glass shattered, body crinkled, the limo started to disintegrate into bits of molten metal and evaporating plastic.

“The gas tank!” yelled Josh. He saw Grasso and Jablonski on the other side, stunned, lying next to a damaged car.

“Get off the bridge!” Josh yelled. “Go that way.” Josh pointed back toward the Queens side. “Go! Get away from the car!”

He glanced at the vehicle, knowing there were two more men inside. But they were beyond hope now. He started to follow Jablonski and Grasso on his hands and knees, then saw Mara running up through the cars, gun drawn, coming for him.

Jing Yo felt the bullet hit him in the right thigh, the sting of a bee on an early summer day, a diversion, an attempt to shake his focus. He concentrated on the limousine, working the stream of bullets into the front of the car, firing until a second shot grazed his left side and pushed him off the car, sent him tumbling to the pavement.

Jing Yo scrambled to his feet, a little wobbly but still able to move. He dropped the box from the P90 and fished another from the pocket of the coveralls. It took him a moment to fit it into the unfamiliar gun.

Someone began firing from the right, near the divider. Jing Yo slammed the magazine home and returned fire.

Mara saw Broome go down as the Chinese assassin fired in his direction. She fired two more shots even though she couldn’t see the gunner, hoping to distract him. Realizing it was futile and that she wouldn’t be able to reload, she stopped.

Josh and the others were up ahead somewhere. She started crawling for them. People were jumping from their cars, rushing to get off the bridge. The smoke and dust were so thick she started to cough.

Bullets crashed into nearby cars, punching through the metal and plastic. She flattened herself on the pavement and glanced around, trying to locate where they were coming from.

The gas tank in the limo exploded, the flames from the interior igniting the gas fumes. The force of the explosion pushed the car into the air; it slammed down on the hood of the car behind it, setting it on fire. Fortunately, the driver had already fled.

A plume of smoke enveloped the bridge, a thick cloud of soot, dust, and debris. Josh started to sneeze.

Panic gripped him. He started to get up. Something hit him, pushed him back against the car — a woman, running from the chaos.

Josh fell to the ground, smacking his head on the bumper of the car. He was back in the past — not Vietnam, but the distant past, a child again, running from the men who had killed his parents.

It was the same paralyzing fear, an emptiness at the center of his body, a certainty that he was going to be killed. He was a little boy again, desperate for life, desperate to live out the dreams he’d started to imagine for himself, half-formed wishes to be a hero, to accomplish something, to be a great man.

Rather than a coward. Rather than a dead boy cowering.

He was not a coward.

Josh pushed himself to his feet, scrambling across the back of another car. He ran through a knot of dust, angled westward along another car, then turned behind a pickup truck.

The cement barrier was a few feet away. He sneezed, put his arm over his mouth to block out the smoke and took a deep breath, then jumped over it. As he went over, he saw a body lying on the ground, next to the barrier, on the eastbound side of the road.

The image didn’t register until he was over the cement, on the other side.

Broome, lying on the ground. Wounded or dead.

Jing Yo realized it was just a matter of time now. No one was firing at him anymore. All he had to do was walk down the line of cars and find the scientist.

Assuming he was one of the people who’d gotten out. Jing Yo wasn’t sure. The limo was on fire now.

Jing Yo steadied himself against the vehicle stalled next to him. Most likely the scientist was already dead, but he had to make sure.

And then?

It was his duty to try to escape. He was not seriously wounded. He would run until he was cornered, and then he would have an honorable death, a fulfillment of his fate.

The next life would take care of itself.

His leg dragged as he walked, his injured thigh holding him back.

Someone was moving forward from the line of cars. He raised his gun and fired, but he didn’t have a good enough angle. He climbed up on the hood of the car next to him, then got up on the roof. He still couldn’t see. The car had crashed into the rail, trying to get away. Jing Yo sidestepped toward it, still trying for a good angle. His balance shaky, he reached up toward the bridge support. But it was too far away.

The height of the side of the bridge would give him the right angle.

If he hadn’t been wounded, he could have easily jumped up. He leaned now instead, clambering up.

There was a woman with a gun. He twisted himself in her direction and fired.

Mara realized a half second before he fired that she would be in the gunman’s sights. She ducked down, then raised the pistol, firing blind.

A burst of submachine gun bullets told her she’d missed.

She stayed down, crawling to the side of the car and looking up toward the limo. Where the hell was Josh?

As soon as Josh heard the gunfire, he rolled back over the divider, landing on his side. He pushed forward, moving almost like he was swimming, crawling toward Broome.

Broome was breathing.

“You all right?” Josh asked.

“Brother, I’m good. Stay down.”

“Give me your gun,” said Josh.

“What?”

“Your gun.”

“Stay down!”

Josh saw the gun a few feet away, under a Lexus GS350. He started crawling for it.

“Hey!” yelled Broome.

“Stay down,” said Josh, grabbing the pistol.

The top of the bridge railing was wet, and the grit from the explosion made it muddy and slippery. Jing Yo moved along the side, having trouble keeping his balance.

The woman with the gun was three cars away. If the scientist wasn’t in the car, he would be with her.

Just as Hyuen Bo had been with him.

He would kill the woman. Kill her first, so the scientist saw what it was like, felt a shadow of the pain he had felt.

He edged forward, sliding. Walking on the bridge was like walking on the beam — it was an exercise he had done when small, an exercise that tested not so much his balance but his faith in the Way, his trust of what the monks told him.

“Close your eyes and walk,” said his mentor. “Walk simply, with your head erect. Trust that you will not fall.”

He did trust.

She was there, on his right. Jing Yo let go of the bridge post, lowering the P90 to fire.

“It’s me you want!” yelled a man’s voice.

Jing Yo turned toward the voice. As he did, his balance shifted, and he felt himself starting to fall.

Josh fired at the commando on the bridge. The nose of the pistol jumped up slightly, his hand a little shaky. He grabbed with both hands and fired again, twice.

The man twisted back, falling away from the third shot.

The assassin disappeared from the bridge.

Josh began to run. He didn’t have a conscious plan, wasn’t sure whether he was still in danger or not. He saw Mara on his right, yelled at her.

“Over the side!” he shouted.

He reached the rail and looked over, looked down.

The shooter was gone, somewhere in the water.

Mara grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t!”

Josh twisted around. “Don’t what?”

“Just let him go.”

His face was two inches from hers.

“I wasn’t going to chase him,” he said, staring into her face.

“Good,” she managed, before he kissed her.

32

The head of the Secret Service detail literally had tears in his eyes as he repeated his advice to the president.

“The most prudent thing is to get of here now,” said the agent. “We have a path north — we close down the FDR, have Marine One meet us at Yankee Stadium.”

“See, now, if it were spring and we stood a chance of catching a ball game, that might be a winning strategy,” said President Greene. They were sitting together in the presidential limo in the garage under UN headquarters. Green reached across and put his hand on the agent’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Ted. I know you’re only doing your job. Excuse my black humor.”

“Sir, we don’t know how many of them there are. We don’t know what else they may have planned.”

“You checked the building for bombs, right?”

“Three times. But — ”

“And nobody could come in or out in the last two hours?”

“Yes, sir — well except for your people. But — ”

“You think I’m going to let the Chinese win this without even taking a shot? They weren’t shooting at me, were they?” Greene glanced at his national security adviser. “Walt, you think they were shooting at me?”

“I can’t say at this time, Mr. President,” said Jackson.

“But I can. We go on as planned. What did you do with Josh?”

“He’s with the police on his way,” said the agent. “Mr. President — ”

“I’ll fire you if you say anything else,” said Greene. “Then I’ll have no protection. That’s not going to be a better situation, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“Well then, let’s move, gentlemen.”

Greene got out of the car. As best as he could determine, the situation was under control. The Chinese had tried to assassinate Josh Mac-Arthur on the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. Josh and Mara Duncan had turned the tables on them. The NYPD had arrived and ushered not only Josh and Mara, but Senator Grasso across the bridge, then taken them through the line of protesters in an armored car.

The confusion had dulled the crowd a bit as well. People were shocked at the violence, not entirely understanding it. Even the Secret Service detail had reported the crowd had “diminished,” as close as the bodyguard ever got to saying things weren’t quite as dire as they had first appeared.

“There’s Senator Grasso now,” Greene said, seeing the senator across the garage. He was standing with two emergency medical technicians. “Senator! Phil! Are you okay?”

“George. George” — Grasso grabbed the president’s arm — ”the Chinese are crazy! They tried to kill me!”

“You’re all right?”

“Yes. They’re out to kill everyone.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that.”

“We have to stop them. They got Smith. My aide. They killed him. And my driver. My God!”

“It’s terrible,” said Greene. “It could have been you.”

“MacArthur shot him. He got the Chinese bastard. I saw the whole thing. I would have taken a few shots myself, if I’d had a gun.”

Greene had gotten a full description of what had happened from Jablonski; according to his blow-by-blow, the senator had cowered beneath an SUV for most of the encounter, and had to be pried out by the paramedics who responded. But Greene wasn’t about to contradict a senator, as long as his vote could be counted on.

“Where is Josh?” asked Greene. “Is he okay?”

“Mr. President, Dr. MacArthur is by the truck with Ms. Duncan,” said Jess Jordan, one of the NSC staffers traveling with him.

“Thank you. Senator, excuse me a second.”

Greene strode across the garage. He was a little apprehensive. He didn’t want to push Josh too far, and was genuinely concerned about his safety, and Mara’s. But his testimony was critical. Especially now — the delegates would know what had happened, or would hear of it before the end of the day. It would add an exclamation point to his testimony.

Josh and Mara were standing near the back of the armored car. A nurse was cleaning the cuts on her forehead.

“Josh! Mara! You’re all right?” said Greene, walking to them. He hugged Mara, then hugged Josh as well. “You’re all right? Are you all right?”

“I’m okay,” said Josh. “Where’s Mạ?”

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, sir. Where’s Mạ?”

Greene looked at Mara. She seemed as calm and collected as ever. He turned back to Josh.

“You know what, Josh? I thought about it. She’s pretty young. For her to go over this. I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Are you really okay?”

“Yes, sir. We — it’s been like this ever since that night.”

“I can imagine.”

He could do more than imagine. He could remember. For just a moment, Greene felt as if he were back in the cell in the Hanoi Hilton. Every day was intense. Every day there was more and more pressure. It went on like that, becoming the norm.

“Josh, if you can’t go on, I understand,” said Greene. “I know it’s — it may be difficult.”

“I can do it,” said the scientist. He glanced at Mara, then turned back to Greene. “I have to do it.”

“Then let’s go tell the world what’s really going on out there,” said Greene, taking hold of his arm and turning toward the elevator.