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
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 strong-points. 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.
