by Larry Bond
Jimmy Choi laughed. “You hack into account and steal it when we done?”
“If I did that, Jimmy, you’d never let me sleep in peace.”
“You got that right, buster.” Jimmy laughed.
They negotiated a bit more—the mercenary wanted the money figured in euros and deposited in a South African bank, not even admitting that he had accounts in China. He was not particular what currency the transaction originated in, as long as the fee was sufficient to cover any currency charges.
“And expenses,” said Jimmy just as Lucas was about to conclude that they had a deal.
“Screw you. Your expenses come out of your share.”
“Gas very expensive today,” said Jimmy. “I see markets going crazy as we speak. We work out compromise. You give Jimmy your credit card number and everyone relaxes.”
Convincing Park to okay the one million dollars wasn’t easy. Lucas wasn’t sure whether he was really worried about the money—which would have been uncharacteristic—or if he was having second thoughts on the whole enterprise. Finally, his boss agreed.
“But no results, no money.”
“That’s why I’m only paying him ten percent up front,” said Lucas.
“What’s going on in Hanoi?” asked Park.
Two of the agency’s three officers were in Saigon; the other was filing reports every half hour. Their status—more specifically, the question of who was leaking information to the Vietnamese—had been put on hold temporarily. But Lucas was still being very careful about what information they would receive: they hadn’t been told about the mission, and wouldn’t be.
“I expect that they’ll find out at some point,” Lucas told his boss. “We may never really know the entire story there.”
Park said nothing. Lucas knew he was in the process of setting up an elaborate and time-consuming trap to test each officer; it could take weeks or even months to figure out what was really going on. The alternative was to flush all three careers, which Park clearly didn’t want to do.
“What’s going on in the city?” he asked. “The airport is completely out of commission?”
“There were still fires burning there fifteen minutes ago. Power is still on, there and down in the capital, but the landlines are down. The cell system is still up; the military is using it as an alternative. They’ve shut down all the servers they know about—the last independent blogger went offline just before I called.”
“Do you think they can stop China?”
“How do you stop the ocean?” said Lucas.
7
Northwestern Vietnam, near the border with China
Josh stayed on the trail for another hour, following it as it twisted up and down the mountainside southward. Finally he spotted some thatched roofs through the woods, peeking between the foliage. Moving off the trail, he made his way slowly toward them, at times walking, at other times dropping to all fours and crawling through the grass.
The trail swung down a shallow hill and then across a narrow valley to come into the village about a half mile from where he’d first spotted it. Two bamboo huts, both with well-weathered walls and roofs, shouldered against the trail. Beyond them sat three much newer houses made of painted brick and some sort of cement stucco, with metal saltbox roofs slanting backward amid the fronds.
No one seemed to be in any of the buildings. Josh was ready to step out and have a closer look when a girl of six or seven darted between the houses, running as if she was being chased. He froze, gripping his rifle, expecting to see soldiers chasing her. When none appeared after a minute or so, he realized it was more likely she was playing a game, running from another child. Whatever she was doing, she had moved on, beyond the nearby houses; he could no longer see her.
Josh crawled forward, driven almost unconsciously by his hunger, a vibrating pit in his stomach and chest. He moved out of the jungle like a tiger, head close to the ground, sneaking toward its prey. He listened for the girl and her playmates, but heard nothing as he stalked to one of the brick structures.
The walls were painted blue, the color of the sky on a cloudless summer day, so bright that they looked as if they were plastic. Josh rose, holding his breath as he listened to hear if someone was inside. The wall he was near stretched maybe twelve feet. It had a door but no window; small air vents lined the top where a soffit would have been on an American home.
Josh started to sidle around to the corner, but then decided not to bother—he could be seen from the other house and the clearing beyond, and if he was going to go inside, he was best off going quickly.
The door had a simple knob without a lock. Josh turned it slowly, then pushed in carefully, pressing himself into the house as his eyes adjusted to the dark.
It was humid, almost dank, even more than outside. He gripped the gun tightly. A table sat immediately in front of him, anchoring a kitchen area, with a small, simple refrigerator and a stove. Immediately beyond this were mats, piled along the floor. There were no other rooms in the house.
Sure the house was empty, Josh pulled the door closed behind him. Light filtered in around and through paper shades on a pair of windows to the left, and once more his eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dimness. When they did, he went to the refrigerator.
His hunger was conscious now, and so overwhelming that everything was blocked out. He pulled open the door to the fridge. There was no light, and when he dropped to his knees he felt barely a chill from the appliance.
Two bottles of citrus juice sat on the middle shelf. Above them was a covered bowl of some sort of noodle dish; below sat a box of oranges. Josh grabbed two of the oranges and sat down, pulling at the skin, frustrated when it refused to give way in large pieces.
As soon as he had a hole big enough for his mouth he bit into it. Juice streamed from his mouth. The perfume overwhelmed him; he devoured the orange, turning it inside out as he ate. Slightly overripe, it nonetheless seemed the most delicious thing he had ever eaten.
He ate the second one just as quickly, almost drunk with it. He got up and tried the noodle dish. It had a sharp, spicy smell, but there was no holding back—he scooped the noodles with his fingers and ate greedily.
Done, he put the bowl back and took out one of the bottles. The liquid had a putrid fish scent. He quickly lowered it from his mouth and recapped the bottle. He tried another bottle; the smell was even worse.
Yet he felt an urge to drink it.
Josh’s hands trembled as he put it back. He had to keep control.
Clothes were folded neatly on small shelves at the side of the room. There were different piles, most with only two or three items. He found a man’s shirt, a long peasant-style shirt that fell to his knees, and put it on over his own, which by now was torn and muddy.
Judging from the piles, five people lived here—two women, a man, two children.
The guess comforted him somehow, as if he’d made some sort of connection with the people, as if they were helping him.
Judging from the sparse furnishings, the family was poor, but they had a solid, new house. Possibly it had been built by an international aid agency. People like that would be happy to help others. They wouldn’t begrudge him the food and shirt.
And if they did, so what?
The thought seemed ugly, almost foreign, but there was truth in it—he would have to do what he needed to survive. Surviving wasn’t only in his best interests. It would help the Vietnamese, ultimately. He would tell the world about what the Chinese were doing.
Was that why he had to survive? Or was it just that he didn’t want to die?
Both.
Which was more important?
“Neither,” he said aloud. But then he realized that he could not, must not, lie to himself. “Living is most important. For now.”
Josh went back and cracked open the door, peeking through the narrow slit to make sure there was no one watching. When he didn’t see anyone, he pulled it open just barely enough to slip through.
He was on his way to check the other when he heard a truck approaching.
Josh reached the woods just as the vehicle came into the clearing near the two older huts. It was a troop truck. Men in uniform jumped out, but at first he wasn’t sure whether they were Vietnamese or Chinese. He listened as someone barked orders.
Chinese.
Realizing that they would probably fan out into the nearby jungle after searching the huts, Josh began slipping deeper in the woods. Two soldiers trotted toward the path; Josh quietly circled in the opposite direction, only to find himself hemmed in by the road.
A field lined with young fruit trees sat on the other side of the road. Josh paralleled the road, moving away from the village downhill, hoping he could find a point where he could easily get across without being seen. He’d gone only a few yards when a big truck began laboring up the other side of the hill. Moving back, he crouched down and waited for it to pass.
It was a tractor cab pulling a low-rider trailer. On the trailer sat two large bulldozers. The truck stopped in the middle of the road, and the two men in the cab got out and began lowering the ramps at the rear of the trailer. Another truck appeared behind it, also with two dozers. A third truck brought a large excavator. A minute or so later, a pair of gray vans pulled into the field and disgorged the operators; within ten minutes a crew was at work leveling the field. They worked methodically, knocking the trees down, pushing them aside, and running over and over the field.
Josh watched with fascination, absorbed in curiosity though not forgetting that he was in danger. He could hear other trucks arriving farther up the road. Soon a chain saw started up, then two more; within a few minutes the saws were so many and so loud that he could have shouted and he wouldn’t have been heard.
The Chinese were building a base.
The realization satisfied his curiosity, and he turned to leave. As he did, he saw a pair of eyes framed by some tree fronds nearby.
His heart froze in his chest. His throat grew so thick he couldn’t breathe, let alone swallow.
The eyes moved, and he saw they were part of a small face—the girl he’d seen earlier.
Josh put up his hand but she darted off to the right, moving quickly away.
Worried that she might tell someone about him, he started in her direction. But after a few steps he realized he’d never catch her.
Josh went back along the road, skirting the area where the men were clearing the fields. A fire had been started to burn some of the brush. A pair of soldiers, rifles under their arms, patrolled along the road.
There were wide spaces between the trees, and Josh had little trouble weaving his way south, keeping a good distance from the road. There was a lot of traffic on it; big trucks or tanks kept rolling past every few minutes.
About an hour after leaving the village, Josh sat down to rest on a downed tree trunk. He leaned his head forward, chin supported by his hands and arms, which in turn were propped on his thighs. He stared at the ground, his mind taking a temporary respite.
Something moved just out of his range of sight. It rustled through the brush, moving slowly. It was quiet, somewhat softer than the chain saws and earthmoving equipment two or three kilometers away.
It sounded like an animal, a Vietnamese deer maybe.
Food.
He’d make a fire. That wasn’t a problem: he still had the matches he’d found the other day, and a lighter. There was plenty of wood.
He got up slowly, barely daring to breathe, and brought his rifle up.
Josh waited. His nose began to twitch—he felt a sneeze coming on. He reached his hand up, squeezing the nostrils to stifle it.
His prey was only a few feet away. Josh steadied the gun with his right hand, waiting.
Brown fur appeared, then gray. He pitched the rifle down to aim, letting go of his nose.
Not fur—hair. A person.
A girl.
The girl he’d seen earlier.
She turned and saw him. Shock was in her face, surprise.
Fear.
Then he sneezed.
The girl bolted and ran into the woods at her right.
He’d never seen anything so frightened. That must have been the way he’d looked when the police found him those many years ago. Maybe it was even the way he looked now.
“Hey,” he said in a stage whisper, not daring to talk much louder even though he was a good distance from the road. “It’s okay. Xin chào. Hello. Xin li. Sorry.”
It was the most polite, nonthreatening thing he knew how to say in Vietnamese, though given his extremely limited vocabulary, there wasn’t much of a choice. But the little girl either did not hear him or wasn’t persuaded. She continued to run.
Josh followed her for a short distance, but quickly realized it was hopeless. Even if she didn’t know the jungle here, she would be pretty good at hiding, and was unlikely to make the mistake of dropping her guard again.
“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he said softly, hitching his pants and walking again.
8
Northern Vietnam
It turned out to be ridiculously easy for Mara to find a truck; it even came filled with gasoline.
It did belong to the Vietnamese army, but that could be considered a plus—civilian-style vehicles were more likely to draw attention from the soldiers she was bound to meet on the way.
The truck, along with two others, was sitting at a curb near an intersection a mile from Mara’s Hanoi hotel. The building next to the curb was on fire.
It was far from the only one. City officials, after some confusion, were shepherding their limited resources to protect the government areas. It was likely that the soldiers who had parked the trucks here had done so thinking they’d be safe, but the shifting winds had been spreading the fires throughout the morning and early afternoon.
Mara pulled her motorcycle over, hopped into the truck, and pressed the starter. The engine cranked to life.
She didn’t want to give up the motorcycle, so she pulled forward a few feet, then got back out and wheeled the bike around to the back. Jumping up on the tailgate of the truck to lower it, she saw that she had an audience—two young teenage boys were standing across the street, watching her.
“Help me,” she told them in Vietnamese. She motioned to the bike, then switched to French. “I need to get the truck—we have to take the truck from the flames. Do you understand? Fire.”
The young men looked at each other. Neither one moved to help her—but they didn’t try to stop her either, which was her real concern. Mara jumped back down and grabbed the bike. It was heavier than she’d thought. She could barely get it off the ground; there was no way she could lift it high enough to get into the truck.
She put it back down, took a breath, then decided to try again. As she strained, the two teenagers came over and helped.
“Can you drive?” she asked them, switching to English. “The trucks—we have to get them down the road to the police.”
The teens shook their head. She repeated it in Vietnamese.
“Di thng. Go straight,” she told them, pretending she thought they had understood. Mara slammed the tailgate shut, then waved at them to take the other trucks. “We’re going to the police. I can talk to you there.”
Mara didn’t bother looking back as she got in. Most likely, she thought, she hadn’t fooled them. But the soldiers would be looking for their truck soon anyway.
She ran her hand through her hair as she drove through Hanoi, pushing it back on her head. She really needed a uniform, but it didn’t appear that the truck’s rightful owners had left one.
A few minutes later she came to a roadblock. Several bicyclists were stopped while soldiers went
through their papers.
There was no place to turn around. Mara considered jumping and running, then noticed a church steeple and got an idea.
Rolling down the window, she climbed halfway out the cab and leaned on the horn.
“I need to get to the bridge!” she shouted, first in English, then in French, and finally in Vietnamese. “We have to get soldiers to the hospital! Men are dying.”
The bicyclists turned and stared. The two soldiers looked over at her as if she were crazy.
Which was not the worst assessment they could make.
“We need to move. The bridge!” she repeated.
One of the soldiers strutted over. Mara began explaining that she was a nun—she reached beneath her shirt and pulled out her cross, holding it up as evidence.
The majority of Vietnamese, especially those in the north, were not Catholics, but the Catholic orders had a long history of charity and relief work, and nuns were generally viewed favorably. Elsewhere, Mara might not have looked very nunnish, but the paucity of Westerners in the region helped her cover story.
Her cross was small, but her manner was emphatic, and after a few minutes of being harangued, the soldier decided to pass the buck to his companion. He pointed at the other soldier and told her to talk to him.
Mara, naturally, completely misinterpreted this as an okay to proceed—and made sure the other soldier did as well, smiling and waving at him as she drove past.
“Sister Jean, pray for my soul,” said Mara, offering up both prayer and apology to one of her old teachers as she escaped down the street.
The cover of an aid worker was too good to pass up, and Mara quickly set about shoring up the image. Soon after reaching Route 32—there were soldiers along the highway, but they weren’t stopping military vehicles—Mara spotted a complex built around a Buddhist monastery. She explained to the monks that she was bringing emergency supplies to Son Tay, a city on the Red River to the west. She offered to take the monks with her, and for a moment worried that one of the kindly brothers might actually take her up on the offer. But the monks were already tending to a number of people left wounded and homeless from the attacks, and instead they offered her some bandages, blankets, and bedsheets.
