you a number. That will be the highway number. Then I’ll give you a place. I’ll be asking you if the road is clear south of that place. You tell me yes or no. That’s it. Nothing more. Assume they’re listening.”
“What if you have a more complicated question?”
“Then I’ll have to play it by ear,” said Mara.
“This is all the help you want?”
Mara contemplated giving him a copy of the video and stills Josh had shot of the massacre. Washington had ordered her not to transmit the files, since she couldn’t safely encrypt them. It was likely the Chinese would intercept the transmission, and they could break any commercial encryption, just as the CIA could. Once they had the images, they would find a way to alter them, releasing versions before the U.S. did.
But what if she didn’t make it? Murphy could be a backup.
No. Her orders were specific: trust absolutely no one with the files, even Americans. Even Zeus, though he hadn’t been named.
“It’s all the help you can give me,” she said. “Can you find your way back to your hotel?”
He looked around. “I’m honestly not sure.”
“Take a right there, go two blocks, then take a left,” said Mara, pointing. “You’ll be back on the avenue. Keep going and you’ll reach your hotel. If you get stuck, you can always ask the soldiers who are trailing you. They’re a block and a half behind.”
6
Jing Yo pinned his elbows close to his ribs, his legs tucked up. He wanted to wait until the last possible moment to deploy his chute.
The city grew before his eyes, the yellow speckles resolving into spot-lights and guns. He’d parachuted so often that he didn’t even need to glance at the altimeter on his wrist to know when to pull the cord; he could just wait for the twinkles to stop.
He thought of what would happen if he didn’t pull, if he just continued to fall.
Oblivion was everyone’s eventual reward. But it was hubris to try to steal it from fate, to seek it before one’s assigned time. The way was unending; attempt to cheat it on one turn of the wheel and the next would make you pay.
Jing Yo pulled the cord. The chute exploded into the air behind him. He felt the strong tug on his shoulders and at his thighs. He took hold of the toggles and began to steer.
He wanted a black spot to land on. He fought off the blur, steadied his eyes. The guns were still firing, but they had moved northwest, following the small aircraft that had flown him here.
Jing Yo aimed for what he thought was a field, then realized almost too late that it was the flat roof of a large single-story building at the end of a road. He pitched himself right, and managed to swing the parachute into the small yard behind the building. His rucksack hit the ground a moment before he did, giving him just enough warning.
The next few minutes rushed by. He gathered the parachute. He found a large garbage bin behind the building and placed it inside. He put the jump helmet and goggles there as well. He unpacked the rucksack, unfolding the bicycle he would use to get into the city. He took his pistol and positioned it beneath his belt. He made sure his knife was ready. He considered changing his boots — he’d worn heavy combat wear for the jump — but thought better of it.
Finally, he started to ride.
Only when his foot touched the pedal did he hear the dogs barking. Even then, he thought they were just random sounds, the sort of alarm a nosy pet might make when catching an unfamiliar scent in the field.
Then he heard shouts, and he realized someone was hunting for him.
Jing Yo began pedaling in earnest. The street before him lit up — headlights, coming from behind him. The beams caught the rusted crisscross of a chain-link fence on the right side of the road, then swung back, reflecting off the houses that lined the left.
He glanced over his shoulder. A pickup was following him.
Though a strong cycler, Jing Yo was no match for the truck. It accelerated toward him, pulling alongside.
Two dogs, along with two men, were in the truck bed. The driver rolled down his window.
“You,” shouted the driver. “What are you doing?”
“I have to report for work,” replied Jing Yo, still pumping his legs. There were houses on both sides of the road; if necessary, he could run behind them.
How could he lose the dogs?
“Where do you work?” asked the driver.
Before Jing Yo could answer, one of the men in the rear of truck yelled at him, asking if he had seen a paratrooper.
Jing Yo’s Vietnamese was very good; he had trained for the mission inside the country, working with a tutor for months. But his vocabulary wasn’t encyclopedic, and he didn’t recognize the Vietnamese word for paratrooper.
“What?” he asked.
“Soldiers. Did you see them?”
“I don’t know,” said Jing Yo.
“From the sky,” said the man.
“An airplane?” Jing Yo asked.
“Dumb peasant.”
The driver pushed harder on the gas, starting to pull away. Jing Yo put his head down, pedaling. He heard the men in the back shout something over the barking dogs.
The truck stopped abruptly.
His path to the left was blocked by a cluster of houses, tightly packed together. Jumping the fence into the open field was a better bet, though it would leave him vulnerable as he climbed. And either way, he would lose his bike.
“What kind of shoes are those?” yelled one of the men in the rear of the truck as he approached.
Jing Yo stopped. “My shoes?”
“Are you a deserter?”
“Maybe you’re pilot of the fighter that was shot down,” said the other man in the back. They were holding their dogs tightly on a leash. The animals were large, foreign dogs, the type trained as watchdogs. He guessed that the men were part of some sort of militia, or perhaps policemen out of uniform.
“Do I look like a pilot?” Jing Yo asked.
Jing Yo put his foot on the pedal, and started to pass them. He looked straight ahead.
The dogs’ barking intensified, then suddenly stopped.
They had been released.
There is a point of balance, in every man, in every situation. Stasis, a calm balance free from turmoil, internal and external. Jing Yo reached for that point, and found it in his mind.
Then he attacked.
The bike flew out from under him as the first dog grabbed at his pant leg. Jing Yo stomped the dog’s skull, crushing it. His maneuver left him vulnerable to the second dog, which jumped at him. Jing Yo raised his arms, barely catching the animal as it lunged. He rolled to his left, using the animal’s weight and momentum against it as he pinned it to the ground. His knee broke its rib cage.
The animal yelped, snapping its teeth. Then it dropped its snout, helpless, dying, wheezing in pain.
Jing Yo jumped to his feet. The two men in the back of the pickup truck were gaping at him, stunned. Jing Yo launched himself, flying into the two men, fists raised. He caught the first man in the throat but missed the second.
