Edge of War

“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 M? 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 M? 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 M?, 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 M?. She expected the girl to be crying. Instead, she had a determined look on her face, eyes slit.

“They were bad men,” said M? 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.

M? 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.

Mara yanked at the door and yelled at the woman driver in Vietnamese. The woman got out, running across the road.

“In,” Mara told Josh.

Josh pulled tentatively at the passenger-side door. Little Joe grabbed him from behind, took the door handle, and opened the car. As soon as they were in, Mara hit the gas, spinning the car into a three-point turn. Another car narrowly missed her.

“We need Lieutenant Kerfer,” said Little Joe. “Unlock the door.”

Josh had slipped into a confused haze. M? was next to him, climbing into his lap. Little Joe reached across him and unlocked the door. Another SEAL, Squeaky, threw himself in, pushing Josh into the other sailor.

“The lieutenant has the other car,” said Squeaky. “Go! Go!”

Mara stepped on the gas pedal. Tires squealing, they drove up the wrong side of the highway for about five hundred yards before coming to an intersection. Mara turned, bumping over the railroad tracks, and speeding onto the road heading eastward, finally on the right side.

“I think I have to throw up,” said Josh.

“Go for it,” said Mara. “We’re not stopping.”

* * *

Mara didn’t stop until she’d gone nearly five miles. Fortunately, the roads were clear of almost all traffic, the only exceptions being a few old farm trucks.

Even better, Josh managed to keep his stomach under control.

They stayed on back roads, moving through the outskirts of towns clustered along the highways. The terrain was mostly partitioned into paddies and fields, completely given over to agriculture.

Kerfer was behind her. He’d grabbed a pickup; two of his men were in the back, no doubt looking for