Edge of War

17

Ho Chi Minh City

Jing Yo recognized the van, or more specifically its round window at the side. It was a Ford, relatively rare in Vietnam, a twin of the van he had seen at Ms. Hu’s. Or the same one.

“There are soldiers there, on the corner,” Jing Yo told Hyuen Bo, pointing to the truck whose gray sides grew black as the red fires behind them flickered in the night. “I’m going to move up the street, away from their view, then cross. I’ll get into the building from the back. You wait for me here.”

“They’ll ask why you’re at the hotel,” she said. “I should go with you — we’ll say we are looking for a place to stay. We can say our house burned down.”

It was a good idea. And it would keep her with him. Safer.

“All right. Come on,” said Jing Yo.

They walked back up the side street before crossing. Jing Yo took Hyuen Bo’s hand, tugging her gently as he started across the street.

His leg muscles stiffened as he reached the other side. He shrugged off the fatigue and started down the street, toward the van. As they approached, Jing Yo realized someone was sitting in the passenger seat.

Mr. Tong.

He must confront him. Fate had placed them together here. To ignore it was too dangerous.

“Stay here,” Jing Yo told Hyuen Bo, letting go of her hand.

Mr. Tong didn’t see him until he was only a few feet from the truck. Surprise flickered across his face, then resignation. He lowered the window as Jing Yo approached.

“Why are you here?” Jing Yo asked.

“You’re the one I should ask,” said Mr. Tong. “Why have you not apprehended your man?”

Jing Yo caught a glimpse of the pistol rising from Mr. Tong’s lap. He shot his arm forward, fist smashing into Mr. Tong’s jaw. The blow cracked his windpipe.

A second punch broke Mr. Tong’s nose. He started to fall forward in the seat.

A chop to the back of his neck killed him.

Jing Yo reached into the truck and took the gun.

So it was clear now. There was no room for questions or doubt.

There was a commotion around the corner, at the front of the hotel. Jing Yo unlocked the door and climbed into the van, pushing Mr. Tong’s limp body into the back. He slid into the driver’s seat. The keys were in the ignition.

A sawed-off shotgun sat in a holster next to the central console. Directly behind the passenger seat was a case with two rocket-propelled grenades, and a pair of submachine guns, along with a backpack filled with ammunition. There was a handgun and grenades as well.

Enough for a small army. Or one commando.

Hyuen Bo ran to the van and climbed into the passenger seat as Jing Yo started the engine. He drove up the block and back around, just in time to see half a dozen men running across the street to the park. The soldiers in the distance made no effort to stop them.

The men were taller than average Vietnamese were. One of them, Jing Yo knew, must be the scientist.

He continued down the block, driving slowly but steadily past the soldiers. He nodded at them, trusting — hoping, really — that the militia bandanna he was still wearing would spare any questions. Apparently it did; the soldiers didn’t say anything.

He was just turning up the street, back toward the heart of the city, when Hyuen Bo grabbed his hand.

“We can’t go back to the apartment,” she said.

“I know,” said Jing Yo.

“We should leave Saigon. There must be many ways out of the country.”

“I can’t just leave. I have a mission.”

“We should leave,” she said.

For the first time since he had returned, Jing Yo heard pleading in her voice. And pain. Great pain.

“Aren’t they trying to kill you?” she asked. “Wasn’t this the van of the people you went to see?”

Mr. Tong had tried to kill him. Jing Yo had to assume that Ms. Hu wanted him dead.

But that didn’t relieve him of his duty. He had let the scientist escape. He had to fulfill his obligations.

Beijing might know nothing of the plots here. And in any event, they were irrelevant.

“I’m sorry,” he told Hyuen Bo. “I must do my duty. Whatever the cost.”

They were silent for a moment.

“And then I will be free,” he added, though the words sounded false, even to him.

18

Ho Chi Minh City

Josh and Stevens waited with M? in a low clump of brush just south of the ferry station as the others ran across the road. The soldiers at the end of the block made no move to stop them.

“We’re all here,” said Kerfer, trotting over. They’d sustained a few cuts and bruises among them, but no serious injuries. “All right, next problem: Stevens, how we getting across?”

“The ferry will have lifeboats,” said Josh. “We can take them.”

“Smart,” said Kerfer, starting toward the building. “Must be why you’re a scientist.”

Josh picked up M? and followed as the team ran to the ferry house. Two of the vessels were tied up inside. The building and ships were deserted. There were two rafts tied to the side of the vessel above the main deck.

“Why don’t we just grab the whole ferry?” said Kerfer as Stevens and Little Joe climbed up to release the rafts. “We can sail it downriver.”

“Do you think we can get past the gunboat?” asked Mara.

“Why not? They’re not going to stop us if we look like we know what we’re doing.”

“There’s probably an order against using the river,” said Mara.

“You just convinced two policemen you were protecting a prince,” said Kerfer. “You don’t think you can talk your way around a bunch of sailors?”

“Can you get the engines started?” Mara asked.

“Piece of cake.”

* * *

As Kerfer had predicted, the gunboat didn’t bother with them, apparently assuming that a craft as large and official as a ferry would not be moving without orders. Josh made a makeshift bed for M? in the passenger cabin. Mara joined Kerfer and Little Joe on the bridge as they guided the ferry into the river channel and moved southward. Kerfer took the wheel himself, smiling broadly as he steered downriver. There was enough light to make out the shoreline and the larger vessels along the way, but Kerfer posted his men as lookouts at the bow to watch for small boats or obstructions.

The ferry wasn’t particularly fast — eight knots looked like their top speed, even with the engines at full — but it was stable and big. If they had to get off it quickly, they could sail toward shore and swim for it.

Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Mara turned on the radio, listening for transmissions. There was a cacophony of military traffic, but none of it seemed to be coming from the river, and it didn’t appear that any was directed at them.

The sat phone rang — DeBiase, looking for an update.

The transmissions — that must be how the Chinese were tracking them.