Edge of War

Neither could have stopped him from going in if he’d wanted, but it seemed pointless.

The doorman returned quickly.

“There is no MacArthur here,” he said.

“I am not sure whether he is a guest,” said Jing Yo. “He told me to meet him in the lobby.”

“You can’t come in unless you are a guest,” replied the doorman.

“You could call him,” said one of the other men. “Call him on your cell phone.”

“Are the phones working now?” Jing Yo asked. He looked at the man.

“Sometimes.”

Jing Yo could see that the man was lying. He had made the suggestion in an effort to seem helpful — to seem like a nice person. The man wanted people to like him. He had acted on that emotion, without thinking of the implications. Now he was trapped in the lie.

A weak emotion — the need to be liked.

To be loved. Was that why he had gone to Hyuen Bo?

He had succumbed to his own weakness, Jing Yo thought.

“I will have to think of another way to contact him,” Jing Yo told them. “Thank you.”

* * *

The Sofitel Metropole was another executive-class hotel, featuring the best French restaurant in the city. No guards barred the way here; the doormen, if armed, were as discreet as the others had been obvious. The lobby was packed with foreigners. Jing Yo moved through them, picking up pieces of conversations.

It seemed all the people were Europeans. A lot were French.

One of them mistook him for a waiter, and asked that he fetch him a brandy. He realized his mistake as Jing Yo stared at him.

“Excusez moi,” said the man in French.

“Ca ne fait rein,” answered Jing Yo, somewhat haltingly trying to say it didn’t matter. His French was not particularly good.

“Ca va,” answered the man. “Do you speak English? I don’t speak Vietnamese.”

“Some English,” said Jing Yo. It was of course a lie; like most Chinese students, he had studied English from the time he was a small boy; and then he’d continued his education in the army.

“This war — a — ” The Frenchman struggled for the right word. “A disaster.”

“Yes.”

“Are you a guest?”

“I am looking for a friend,” said Jing Yo. “I am worried for him. He’s an American.”

The Frenchman offered to buy him a drink. Jing Yo went with him to the bar, though when the man offered, all he would take was water.

There were not many Americans in Hanoi, according to the Frenchman. The best place to look, he added as he sipped his brandy, was the Hilton.

“Yes,” said Jing Yo. “But he is not there.”

The Frenchman rattled off a list of other hotels. He seemed to need to talk. His fluency in English grew as he drank a second brandy, though his accent thickened. Jing Yo had to listen hard to understand the words.

“There are a lot of people at Hotel Nikko,” said the man. “Mostly Asian, though. The airport is closed. There’s a train south to the coast, but everyone says it is foolish to take it — it’s sure to be bombed.”

“So are you going to stay here then?” Jing Yo asked.

“I’m getting out as soon as I can.”

“I see.”

“I’m a businessman, not a warrior. I sell toiletries.” The Frenchman smiled awkwardly. “Another drink?”

* * *

Hyuen Bo was waiting for Jing Yo at the small cafe where they said they’d meet, sitting at a table on the sidewalk, protected from the street by an iron rail. She lowered her gaze as he approached. He sat without greeting her. He was angry with himself for involving her, even though she had the potential to help.

“The agency has given up keeping track of the foreigners,” said Hyuen Bo.

“I understand.”

The waiter came. Jing Yo ordered cha ca, a casserole made from fried fish.

Hyuen Bo ordered nothing.

“I have to get back to work,” she told him. “I’m sorry.”

“Go,” said Jing Yo softly.

She looked at him, then rose.

“Tonight?” she asked, touching him.

Jing Yo didn’t reply. He didn’t want to see her. And yet of course he did, more than anything in the world.

She bent quickly and kissed him.

* * *

A knife, plunging past his mouth.

Jing Yo lost his breath, and sat in shock — not at the kiss, though that had been unexpected, but at the flush of heat it left.

* * *

After lunch, Jing Yo remembered the list of the hotels the Frenchman had given him and began systematically checking them, going to each in turn. By the third hotel his pattern was perfected. There was no great trick to it. Jing Yo went in the front door — only the Hilton, it turned out, was carefully guarded — and looked for groups of foreigners, first in the lobby, then in the bar. Because he looked Vietnamese, they took him as a potential source of information and tried to befriend him. They asked about possible evacuation routes, about how close the Chinese were, whether the army was collapsing. Jing Yo answered as optimistically as he could. This cheered them up and made his own questions easier.

He was looking for an American who worked for the UN, he would say, and from there add whatever details seemed helpful.

There were some recommendations, some hints, but it was clear enough that no one he spoke to had seen Joshua MacArthur. An announcement had been made that power would be turned off at 6 p.m., and this spurred considerable concern, distracting most of the people he spoke to. Few thought it would be turned back on again.

One man offered him ten thousand American dollars to get him safely out of the country.

“I heard the trains are still running,” said Jing Yo coldly.

By four thirty, Jing Yo realized that if he was in Hanoi at all, the scientist had decided to avoid the most obvious hotels. A hotel that completely catered to Vietnamese would not be a good choice, as he and whatever security was with him would stick out. But hotels on the edges of the tourist area, or ones whose primary guests were foreigners but not Americans — those were the places Jing Yo should look at.

I have underestimated him, Jing Yo told himself. That was a serious mistake.

The scientist would choose a hotel that could be guarded. Or, lacking that, one where lookouts could be posted and an easy escape planned.

There were many hotels in that category. Jing Yo remembered the Hotel Nikko and went there. But it was difficult to strike up a conversation. A man mentioned that there had been several Americans there earlier. He described a woman — tall, blond — and a man who might be the American Jing Yo wanted, or might not. He hadn’t spoken to either.

No one at the desk knew him.

Jing Yo left the hotel and began walking toward Hyuen Bo’s apartment. He had resolved not to return, but he was doing it anyway.

He remembered the kiss, still felt her lips and the warmth.

* * *