Edge of War

“I picked the lock. Come on. We need to talk.”

“Uh, what about?” he asked.

“Not here. Get dressed. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

Just as demanding as Jenna, thought Zeus, though not in a good way.

* * *

Mara waited for Zeus on one of the massive French couches in the lobby, sipping coffee and eating one of the croissants the hotel employees had brought. A Western-style continental breakfast was an old tradition at the hotel, and the manager insisted on keeping it up, even though his staff was greatly reduced.

The pastries were at least a day old, if not two or three. The croissants, however, were fresh, still warm from the oven, Mara thought. She’d been in Paris several times, and appreciated a good croissant — flaky and airy, the inside porous enough to soak up jelly.

Little luxuries were like pearls when you were on an assignment, her boss, Peter Lucas, always said. Grab them when you can.

Mara took another croissant, and split it in half with her fingers, dabbing both sides with jelly. The jelly was grape, relatively rare and probably not much in demand before the war, she thought.

It came in a small plastic tub, sealed against germs and bugs, and dust. But ultimately not against war.

Zeus came out from the back, passing the reception desk. He had an easy, confident gait. Though sleepy- eyed, he walked with purpose, the sort of man who swept into a room and took control of it. He was handsome, but without the rugged edge Kerfer displayed. Zeus was clearly headed for the upper ranks.

“You played football in high school,” Mara said as he sat down.

“Are you asking?”

“No.” She sipped her coffee.

“You read some sort of dossier?”

“No. I can just tell.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Quarterback?”

“School record for passing. Broken the next year by a guy who went to Michigan State.” Zeus smiled. The waiter began pouring him a cup of coffee.

“Yeah,” said Mara. “Try the croissants.”

“What’s going on?”

She shook her head slightly. She assumed the hotel was bugged.

“Oh,” said Zeus, catching on. He took a big swallow of coffee.

“I expected more chaos,” said Mara. “And destruction.”

“There’s plenty of both,” said Zeus.

“But there’s also this.” She held the croissant up.

“That good, huh?”

“Try one. Then let’s go for a walk.”

* * *

The coffee was stronger than Zeus was used to, and he had a slight caffeine buzz as they walked outside. A Vietnamese army unit had been assigned to protect the Americans in the hotel. Two trucks sat across the street. A half dozen soldiers milled around nearby. To a man, each had a cigarette in his mouth.

They stared at Zeus and Mara as they came out of the building. They are as curious about the westerners, Zeus thought, as they would be about circus performers come to town.

“You think the hotel is bugged?” Zeus asked as they turned down a side street.

“Hmm,” she said.

It was the barest of syllables, just a sharp hum really, but the tone told him to be quiet. He walked along at her side, chastened, crossing at the corner onto a broader avenue. The sun had not yet risen

“I’ve never been to Hanoi,” said Zeus. “Not in real life. But I’ve played all sorts of war games here. In our simulations — they look a hell of a lot like the real thing.”

“You couldn’t die in one of the simulations if the bricks of the buildings fell apart,” said Mara.

“Or if a bomb hit,” said Zeus.

He meant it as a joke — a quip, something to break the tension. But it fell flat. Mara seemed cross, angry about something. The night before, driving in from Hanoi, she had been much less cynical and snappy.

Well, they were in a war. People were trying to kill them. That didn’t make most people happy.

Mara wasn’t pretty in a conventional way. Not that she was ugly, or even unattractive. She was tall, almost six feet, and maybe a little too much like a tomboy for his taste. Her Vietnamese-style clothes — baggy, draping, in black — didn’t do much for her either.

“Don’t trust the American embassy,” she said, abruptly starting across the street.

“Huh?”

She moved so fast Zeus had trouble keeping up.

“Don’t trust them,” said Mara.

“The ambassador seems nice.”

“Nice is meaningless. And she’s not the problem.”

Mara turned to the right. She seemed to know exactly where she was going. The buildings around them were two- and three-story masonry structures, storefronts and apartment houses, with the occasional office building thrown in. The signs were a colorful mishmash of Vietnamese characters, occasionally punctuated by English and familiar trademarks. There was a Canon sign; across the street on a bank was a logo for HSBC. The words “Out of Order” were written on a piece of cardboard over it, in English and Vietnamese.

“I need to get down to Saigon,” Mara told him. “The airport here is too dangerous to use. It could be overrun at any minute.”

“That’s not true,” said Zeus. ‘“It’s not in any immediate danger.”

“I don’t have time to argue with Langley,” Mara told him, referring to the CIA brass by naming the agency’s headquarters. “And if they’re not going to believe what I tell them, they’re not going to buy anyone else’s arguments. There’s a plane for me in Saigon. I need to get there.”

“I don’t understand,” said Zeus. “Last night, you and the SEALs were going to be evaced from the airport by plane this morning.”

“Yeah. Things change. Especially in Vietnam.”

* * *

Mara walked on, wending her way through central Hanoi’s business district. The soldiers from the hotel were probably following, but she wasn’t able to see them.

Which was good enough. As long as they weren’t in direct sight, they wouldn’t be able to use a shotgun-type mike to pick up the conversation. Not that she’d seen one.

Maybe she was being too paranoid. Unless one of them was bugged…

Shit.

“Stop!” Mara said, turning to him. “Take of your shoes.”

“My shoes?”

“Where’d you get them?”

“I brought them with me.”

He stood on one foot in the middle of the sidewalk and removed his right shoe. Mara took it, examining the sole, and then the interior.

“You looking for a bomb?” he asked.

“Other shoe,” she insisted, holding out her hand.

He gave it to her. Then she demanded his shirt.

“You gonna ask for my pants, too?”

“You can check that yourself,” said Mara, running her fingers across the seams. The CIA had bugs that were so small they could be sewn into the facing of a shirt, or placed along the side of a buttonhole. But the Vietnamese didn’t possess such technology, or at least no one in the agency thought they did.