9
When she saw a sign for a rest stop ahead, she told a marshal to stop for some coffee.
“Orders are to go straight, ma’am,” said the driver.
“We’re either stopping or I’m going to pee right here on your seat,” she told him.
The driver took his foot off the gas.
The rest stop was basically a slightly oversized McDonald’s, manned by sleepy-eyed retirees. It was a little past five in the morning, but more than a dozen people were already in line for coffee and breakfast sandwiches, the first wave of the far-suburb rush hour.
Mara had been away from the States for over a year, and while she was not generally a fast-food junkie, the smells stoked her appetite as soon as she walked in the door. She ended up ordering two Sausage McMuffins with Egg, hash browns, and a large coffee.
Then she realized she didn’t have any money.
“Don’t worry, hon,” said the woman behind the counter. “Your husband can pay. Can’t he?”
The marshal standing behind her looked like he wanted to melt through the floor. He ordered a coffee, then paid — reluctantly.
“I better get reimbursed,” he said on the way out.
“Bill the agency,” Mara said.
“Oh yeah, I bet that works.”
Josh was still sleeping in the car. The other agent, slumped behind the wheel, asked why they hadn’t brought him back something.
“Your partner’s a cheapskate,” said Mara. “You can have one of my McMuffins if you want.”
“Got sausage?”
“Of course.”
“Nah, I don’t want take your food. Besides, I’m supposed to stay away from that stuff.” He started to back out of the parking space, then pulled back in. “Maybe I’ll just go grab something.”
Mara tried to make conversation with the other marshal while they were waiting, but he remained in a bad mood. He was middle-aged, the sort of man who by now was more interested in the job’s pension plan than in its possibilities for travel. He answered her questions with as few words as possible. Most of his assignments involved protecting witnesses in federal cases, though he’d never protected anyone more interesting than a low-level mobster. He hadn’t been involved in any interesting busts, either, at least to hear him tell it.
Mara let him drink his coffee in peace. She was still worried about having to go public. Lucas said he was going to take care of it — but would he really? How strongly could he argue against something the president wanted?
Josh didn’t need Mara. She could blend into the background easily enough, even pretend to be part of his bodyguard contingent.
Here was the funny thing: she was prepared to give up her life for her country, but not her career. Going public meant she’d work a desk for the rest of her life.
Maybe not. Technically, it was possible to work in covert operations once you were known. It was highly unlikely, but possible.
No way would that happen. They’d give her some sort of gig as a trainer, pretending it was a reward.
To them, maybe.
Then she’d get some BS assignment that would be, at its heart, an analyst’s job. Visit, drink, report. Not necessarily in that order. Repeat as necessary.
Mara glanced at her watch. Was it too early to call Peter and see if he had fixed things? Would he have gone home after the briefing and gone to bed? Possibly he was still in the session; Greene and his cabinet were known for marathons.
She decided she would try anyway, and reached for her phone — only to realize she didn’t have one. She’s surrendered her gear as soon as the helo landed in Thailand.
“Son of a bitch,” said Mara.
“Problem?” asked the driver.
“Coffee’s hot,” she told him, reaching over to turn on the radio.
It had taken so much to win her trust.
And now he was just going to let her go?
But he couldn’t take care of her. There were experts. She’d need psychologists and tutors for English.
He felt as if he were letting her down somehow. That he was abandoning her.
She’d be at the UN with him. But how was she going to deal with that? It’d be crazy. She’d think the Vietnamese were after her again.
“She should just be left alone.”
“Problem, Mr. MacArthur?” asked the marshal next to him.
Josh opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d been speaking out loud.
Mara turned around in the seat in front of him. “You okay, Josh?”
“Just a bad dream,” he told her.
10
Jing Yo hesitated a moment, as if he didn’t understand the words. Then he raised his hand and gave over the small book. The customs officer took it and held it under a light at his station before comparing it to something on his computer screen.
The U.S. and China were not at war, but Jing Yo had been given a Thai passport and an assumed name to travel under nonetheless. He had a false background story and an entire biography memorized; he was a student returning to America to work on his medical degree. He could give any number of details relating to this, from his three previous (but false) addresses to the difficulties he had (supposedly) had finding suitable cadavers to work on.
What he could not do was speak much Thai beyond a few simple phrases. The agent who had given him the passport, some other travel documents, and a supply of cash and credit cards, had told him it wouldn’t be necessary to speak the language; no customs official would waste his or her time with him.
This one certainly seemed interested, however. He moved the passport back to the little light, fanning it gently, as if maybe he thought the ink would flow off.
Jing Yo told himself to be patient.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?” asked the officer. “Mr. Sursal.”
“Srisai,” said Jing Yo, correcting the pronunciation in case this was a trick. “I am studying to be a doctor.”
