Edge of War

by Larry Bond

  “I wouldn’t trust them for the time of day.”

  Kerfer frowned again—it seemed to be his basic facial expression—then slowly nodded.

  “What about the little girl?” he asked.

  “Washington says she can come back with us,” said Mara. “That’s what you want, right?”

  “Hey, I don’t care. Better than an orphanage, right?”

  Mạ had a hell of a story to tell, which was the real reason Washington wanted her back. Still, she could live a far better life in the States than she could here. Regardless of the war.

  “When are we getting out?” Kerfer asked.

  “I’ll tell you in plenty of time.”

  Kerfer pushed himself back in the seat, extending his legs to relax. “Girl jumping, too?”

  “She can come with me. We’ll go out uphill. It’s like stepping off an escalator.”

  “I’ve done it before.” He smelled of sweat. “Country’s falling apart?”

  “Not really,” said Mara. “If that was happening, the train would be packed.”

  “People are afraid to take the train because they know the Chinese will bomb it soon,” said Kerfer. “It’s an easy target.”

  “They haven’t bombed it yet,” said Mara.

  “That’s because they figured they would waltz right through. They wanted the train. Now that they’re starting to slow down, they’ll bomb everything in sight. They won’t care about how many they kill. They’ll just lay it all to waste.” He turned to her. “That bother you?”

  “It’s not my job to be bothered by that.”

  Kerfer laughed. “You do a good imitation of being a hard-ass,” he told her. “I’ll give you that.”

  The train started braking. Mara looked out the window. She wasn’t sure where they were, but she knew they couldn’t be much more than halfway there; they hadn’t even passed Phú yet. She got up and walked to the vestibule of the car.

  “Problem?” asked Kerfer, following.

  “We shouldn’t be stopping,” she said, taking a train key from her pocket and opening the door.

  “Nice,” said Kerfer.

  Mara leaned out of the car and saw a contingent of soldiers near the side of the track ahead. They must be the reason the train was stopping.

  It was too late to run for it.

  “Back in the car. Group together,” she told Kerfer. “I do the talking.”

  “They going to ask us for passports?” said Kerfer.

  “Hopefully not.”

  “We got ’em.” The SEALs had prepared civilian covers for this very contingency. They were a soccer team, in the country for an international goodwill tour.

  “Hold on to them,” said Mara. “The girl is my daughter. I talk. No one else.”

  * * *

  Squeaky banged on the door of the restroom. “Come on, come on,” he said in his high-pitched whisper.

  Josh straightened and took a slow breath. The putrid air of the closet-sized bathroom only made him feel worse. What he needed was fresh air.

  “Josh? Stay in there,” said Mara outside. “You’re all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There are soldiers coming onto the car. Stay in the bathroom. Don’t come out unless I tell you.”

  Josh heard her tell Squeaky to stay there as well. He pressed the tap to get some water and wash his hands, but nothing flowed. And then there were Vietnamese voices in the car.

  * * *

  Mara watched the soldiers as they came into the train. They were teenagers, joking about something one of them had done while waiting for the train. The sight of the foreigners silenced them momentarily. They moved into the middle of the car and sat in a clump together, a half dozen of them, all lugging AK-47s and light packs.

  Mara had gone back to sit with Mạ. The little girl was tense, sitting stiffly upright. They were two seats from the end of the rear door, just up from the restroom.

  She wouldn’t have minded the soldiers at all, except for the fact that she had to jump from the train. She wasn’t sure how they were going to react if half a dozen foreigners went off the side.

  The train began moving. Mara pretended to be interested in the scenery.

  Josh was still in the restroom as the train started to move again. Now that the soldiers were in their seats, Mara decided it was time to get him back out. So she went over and put her head to the door. Squeaky blinked at her, trying to puzzle out what she had in mind.

  “Honey, are you okay?” asked Mara. She made her voice just loud enough for the soldiers to hear, guessing that they would know at least a little English.

  “I’m okay,” said Josh.

  “Come out and sit with me,” said Mara, her voice softer.

  Josh immediately opened the door. Squeaky hesitated for a second, then slipped inside as if he’d been waiting.

  “What are we doing?” asked Josh.

  “You can have the window,” said Mara, gently pushing his side.

  He slipped Mạ between them and sat down. A few seconds later, the door at the front of the car opened. Another pair of Vietnamese soldiers entered—a lieutenant and a corporal.

  The lieutenant immediately frowned at the foreigners. “Why are you on this train?” he said to Kerfer, who was sitting alone in the seat closest to the door.

  “Going to Ho Chi Minh City,” said Kerfer. He held his ticket, folded down, in his hand.

  The lieutenant shook his head. “You’re Americans?” His English was good, his accent by now familiar.

  Mara got out of her seat. “We were all here on a visit to Hanoi University,” she told the soldier, walking forward. She switched to Vietnamese. “The government advised us to join the rest of our group in Saigon.”

  “Who?” said the lieutenant, still in English.

  Mara used the first name that came into her head—Phú, claiming he was from the education ministry, which had sponsored their soccer visit. The soldier would have no way of checking, and she calculated that if she seemed sure and exact, he would eventually drop the matter.

  But she calculated wrongly.

  “We will search your bags,” said the lieutenant.

  “Why?” said Mara, switching to English as well so Kerfer would know what was going on. “Why are you going to search our bags? Do you think we are thieves?”

  “Let me see your passport and visa,” demanded the lieutenant.

  “Okay. Let me get it.”

  Mara turned and walked to the back, even though her passport was in her pocket. Only one of the soldiers was watching; the others were either listening to MP3 players or reading.

  Mara opened her sling bag, poked around quickly—making sure not to expose her pistol—then began patting the pockets of her clothes. She reached inside and pulled out the passport. There was a twenty-dollar bill in it.

  The lieutenant opened the passport, keeping the bill in place.

  “Is there a problem?” Mara asked him.

  “All transportation must be organized by the army,” said the lieutenant. “The minister of education is nothing.”

  Mara saw Kerfer coming down the aisle behind the Vietnamese officer.

  Go back to your seat, she thought. We’re almost through with this.

  “Where in Ho Chi Minh City are you going?” asked the Vietnamese lieutenant, still looking at her passport.

  “We’re supposed to call when we get to the station,” she said. “I would imagine they will send a car. I hope they will send a car, or we will have to walk. We’ll do whatever they tell us, of course.”

  “Whose child?”

  “Mine.”

  “She’s not on your passport?”

  “That’s not necessary in America,” she lied.

  The lieutenant closed the passport, tapping it against his hand. He seemed to be deciding whether to take the money or not.

  Finally he slipped the bill out and handed her the passport back.

  “Now let me see your bags,” he said.


  Kerfer raised his arm, revealing a pistol. Before Mara could say anything, he’d pulled the trigger, putting a bullet through the side of the officer’s head.

  12

  Hanoi

  Jing Yo put it simply to Hyuen Bo—he was looking for an American scientist who had come to the country a few days before the war started. Hyuen Bo’s job in the central ministry gave her the perfect pretext for checking with the Hanoi police to see if the scientist had registered at the local hotels, as required.

  Jing Yo did not try to soften the fact that she was, in effect, betraying her country. He walked her halfway to work, promising to meet her at lunch. Then he walked southward, cautious but more confident than he had been before.

  Hanoi was on high alert, with soldiers scattered through the streets. But mostly they ignored him. He was dressed like many Vietnamese his age, those with good jobs at least: fresh black slacks and a light blue shirt, pulled from his rucksack and nicely pressed by Hyuen Bo. He was tall for a Vietnamese man, and might look somewhat more Chinese than many others, but he had identification, a license, and other miscellaneous papers if he needed to establish his bona fides.

  There were soldiers stationed along some of the streets, and on several of the corners sandbags had been piled to make crude strongpoints. Rolls of barbed wire were coiled by the side. The Vietnamese seemed to be planning to fight street by street, if it came to that.

  That was unlikely, Jing Yo guessed. From what he knew, China planned to let Hanoi wither on the vine, cutting it off from the rest of the country. The Vietnamese would eventually be allowed to sue for peace—assuming, of course, that the rest of the world did not intervene.

  Which was why he was here.

  Jing Yo caught the eye of a soldier across the street, staring at him. He frowned but put his head down, walking as he imagined a compliant Vietnamese citizen would walk, anxious not to cause any trouble. He crossed the street and turned the corner onto a block lined with stores. Ordinarily, the street would be choked with traffic, but there was little today. Even the usual clusters of scooters and bicycles were much thinner than Jing Yo remembered from his previous stays in the city.

  His destination sat squarely in the middle of the block, a small clothing and dry cleaning store where one could get handmade clothes. The trade for tailored goods had declined sharply over the past decade, as fashions became more and more westernized—and imported. The shop was now regarded as somewhat dusty and old, a place that mostly served an older generation.

  Jing Yo went in cautiously. The proprietor was seated at a chair, speaking with another man. They looked up as he came in.

  “I’d like to be measured for a suit,” Jing Yo said.

  The tailor rose without comment. He reached into his pocket for a measuring tape, and slowly unfurled it.

  “You are an awful optimist,” said the other customer.

  Jing Yo didn’t reply. He was afraid that if he spoke too much, his accent would betray him.

  The tailor began taking his measurements. He moved slowly, feet shuffling. His whole manner was glacial, except for the way he moved his hands—they pulled the tape out as if snapping a line over a piece of wood at a construction site. His fingers furled the tape back between them with the quick efficiency of a fisherman reeling in an errant cast. He smelled of perfumed tea.

  “Have they gotten far with the defenses?” asked the other customer.

  Jing Yo shrugged.

  “Have they barricaded the street?”

  “No,” answered Jing Yo.

  “I don’t think they will be barricading the street,” said the tailor, his voice a bare whisper. But the customer heard it, and replied.

  “They will. You’ll see.”

  “They made no such preparations during the American war,” said the tailor.

  “The Chinese are not the Americans. The Chinese are murderers. They will carry off the women, if they ever enter Hanoi.”

  “They will not enter Hanoi,” said the tailor. He pushed Jing Yo’s right leg slightly to the side, so he could measure his inseam.

  “The Chinese are devils,” said the customer.

  “Yes,” said Jing Yo.

  “You disagree?”

  “They are devils.”

  “I think they will retreat,” said the tailor, continuing with his measurements. “This will be the way it was with the border war. They will see that we cannot be defeated. They will run away.”

  “The Americans are egging them on,” said the customer. “They are probably the ones who planned this. They want revenge.”

  “Ah, revenge,” said the tailor. “They have been gone forty years. They care as much for us as you do for the dust under your stove.”

  The tailor shambled over to a small table at the side of the room. He took a pencil from a cup, wet the tip, and began writing numbers on pad. Then he turned to Jing Yo.

  “What style do you want?” he asked.

  Jing Yo hesitated. He didn’t know what the options were.

  “Let me show you my most popular suit. They wear this in Hong Kong.”

  “Hong Kong is China,” said the other customer. “Show him something else.”

  “It’s up to him to decide.” The tailor stepped toward a rack at the side of the shop.

  “Why do you want a suit anyway?” asked the other customer. “To be buried in?”

  “For work,” muttered Jing Yo.

  “Work? You don’t need a suit for work.”

  “This is something popular in Paris,” said the tailor. “Many young men such as yourself choose a suit like this to make an impression.”

  “Hmmm,” said Jing Yo.

  “Well, I must get to the market,” said the other customer, rising. “I will see you later, Mr. Loa.”

  “Later, Dr. Hung.”

  The tailor pulled out another suit to show Jing Yo. “This is also French,” he said as the door closed.

  “I am interested in a hat,” said Jing Yo.

  The tailor pushed the suit back into the rack and fished for another.

  Jing Yo wondered if he had made a mistake and come to the wrong place.

  “This is a lighter fabric,” said the tailor.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” said Jing Yo abruptly. “Your friend was right. This is a bad time for a suit.”

  The tailor clutched his arm as he turned to go. Despite the old man’s fragile appearance, his clasp was strong.

  “People are watching everywhere,” whispered the tailor in Chinese. “You must be extremely careful.”

  “Yes,” said Jing Yo.

  “The Paris suit would be the best.” The tailor once more was speaking in Vietnamese. “In black, I think.”

  “I am in your hands.”

  * * *

  Jing Yo explained that he had a mission, and was looking for an American scientist. He showed the picture that had been obtained from the UN Web site by Chinese intelligence. The tailor did not recognize the man, and made no promises, except to pass on the message.

  The old man was a low-level operative, more of a cutout than a spy, a person used to insulate the upper ranks from the people in the field who were constantly in danger of being caught. There might be several cutouts in any given chain of information.

  Then again, there might not. For all Jing Yo knew, this old man might actually be China’s Hanoi spymaster.

  After warning Jing Yo that he must be careful, the tailor said that the airport had been bombed sufficiently that it was now closed. The word from Da Nang was that the airport was no longer open. The only flights out of the country were leaving through Saigon. Most likely, said the tailor, the American would head there.

  “I need better information than guesses,” said Jing Yo.

  “Many foreigners were taken south the first day of the war,” said the tailor. “Beyond that, I cannot say.”

  The old man seemed more interested in getting rid of him than in doing his job. Jing Yo decided he would not mention the
two hotels he’d been told to check.

  “What kind of transportation can I find to get south?” he asked.

  “Hmmm,” said the tailor. He went into the back. Jing Yo waited. He returned with a small satellite phone.

  “You will receive a phone call after six p.m. There will be instructions,” said the tailor. “Do you have money?”

  “Yes.”

  “The suit will be ready when you return,” said the tailor loudly, as if someone were listening to their conversation.

  “Thank you very much,” said Jing Yo.

  13

  South of Hanoi

  Mara reacted automatically, pushing Mạ down as she grabbed for the pistol in her sling bag. By the time she had the Beretta in her fist, the car had erupted with automatic-rifle fire: the five SEALs had slaughtered the Vietnamese soldiers.

  “Out the back,” said Mara, grabbing Mạ into her arms. “Come on, let’s go!”

  When she reached the vestibule at the back of the car, Mara took the train key and jabbed it into the lock that opened the door. The door flew open.

  The train was going just over ten miles an hour. There was no time to do anything but jump.

  “Try to roll when you hit the ground,” Mara told Josh, and then she leapt out with Mạ, pushing off hard to make sure they cleared the track. She rolled, taking the force of the fall on her back, protecting the child.

  Mara got up and looked at Mạ. She expected the girl to be crying. Instead, she had a determined look on her face, eyes slit.

  “They were bad men,” said Mạ in Vietnamese.

  “Yes, but we’re all right,” Mara told her.

  * * *

  The adrenaline that had spiked with the gunfire vanished as soon as Josh hit the ground. His body exploded with pain. He couldn’t breathe.

  “Come on, come on,” said Mara, pulling him to his feet.

  “I need—I can’t breathe.…”

  “Come on, come on,” she insisted, pulling him along.

  Mạ grabbed his leg, urging him to run.

  The SEALs were jumping from the train behind him. Josh pushed himself forward. He was dizzy and nauseous, and his head pounded.

  A road ran parallel to the tracks. As Josh struggled to breathe, Mara ran into the path of traffic, her pistol out. She signaled wildly as a car approached. The frightened driver hit the brakes.