Edge of War

if you’re honest. So let’s go through it again.”

Josh glanced at Mara. She sat with her arms folded, silent like a sphinx. He wanted to thank her, but he couldn’t even catch her eye.

He started to talk, to remember what had happened.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Jablonski said when Josh finished the part about finding the buried people in the village. “Let’s take a break.”

“I think we’re done for the day,” said Mara.

“I didn’t get to M?,” said Josh.

“The girl?” asked Jablonski. “Why don’t you tell me that one. That’s a good one.”

“I really think we need a break now,” said Mara. “For the rest of the day.”

Josh looked at her. She was tired, more tired than he had realized.

“I agree,” he said.

“All right,” said Jablonski. “I have some calls. And I’d like you to get some new clothes. So maybe I can meet you for dinner?”

“New clothes?” said Josh.

“The president wants you to be presentable.”

“Uh — ”

“We’ll pay for it, don’t worry.” Jablonski reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick wad of business cards. He sorted through them, then found one for a store called Schwartz’s Menswear. “Talk to this guy. Give him this card,” said Jablonski, writing on the back.

“I don’t know,” said Josh.

“You can pay me back if you want,” said Jablonski. “Don’t worry about it now. You have a lot to worry about.”

Josh took the card and flipped it over. The scrawl was hard to make out, but he deciphered it as one word: Billy.

“So, we’re set on dinner?” said Jablonski, rising.

“I’m not sure,” said Josh. He glanced at Mara.

“Call me and we’ll see,” she said.

15

New York City

Jing Yo took a shower. The water pressure was strong, the first thing about America that truly impressed him. He examined his clothes carefully as he dressed, trying to make sure no electronic devices had been sewn into them. But this was always a possibility — the CIA was as clever as it was devious — and the first item on his agenda was to deal with it. He checked his phone to make sure there were no messages, then left the hotel.

It was late winter. The temperature was just over sixty, cool to Jing Yo, though warm to most of the people he saw on the streets, who were going around in their shirtsleeves.

Jing Yo walked a few blocks south and west, choosing his turns randomly. He stopped and looked in windows, trying to see if he was being followed. The environment was so foreign that he couldn’t tell. There was no one obviously following him, but if the Americans were onto him they would have their best operatives, and they would have a decided advantage.

He wasn’t about to concede. He wasn’t even prepared to assess the odds of his success.

After twenty minutes of wandering, he set his mind on finding new clothes. This took him farther downtown, where a panoply of small shops and even street vendors offered items for only a few dollars.

Ironically, nearly all were made in China.

Shirts and sweatshirts were easy to find, and so were shoes — though he had to settle for athletic shoes rather than something sturdier. It took longer to find a place that sold pants, but finally he was finished, outfitted from head to toe in completely different clothes.

Jing Yo dumped his old clothes in a garbage can, then walked toward the East River. At First Avenue he turned uptown. As he crossed East Thirty-fifth Street, he heard crowd noises — loudspeakers blaring, and the vague buzz of people gathering somewhere nearby. Cars were backed up on the avenue, a few beeping, most simply looking for a way to get out of the gridlock.

He noticed people moving down the street toward him, younger people mostly. One or two had signs, but he couldn’t make out what they said, and didn’t want to stare, let alone ask.

At Thirty-sixth Street, people were sprinkled along Saint Gabriel’s Park and the green islands that flanked the entrance to the Midtown Tunnel. A few were eating sandwiches. By now it was the middle of the afternoon, and Jing Yo was confused — they seemed to be having a picnic in the middle of a workday.

There were police sawhorses at Thirty-ninth Street; behind them stood a crowd of people, their backs to him as he approached. A policeman was trying to wave the traffic from First Avenue onto Thirty-ninth, but it was like trying to fit the contents of the ocean into a milk jug. Every time a vehicle inched onto the side street, three more tried to nose into its slot. They were packed so densely together that Jing Yo had trouble finding a way across.

Safely on the sidewalk, he walked through the gaps in the crowd, weaving between the clusters of people. These signs he could read:

NO NEW VIETNAM!

LEAVE CHINA ALONE!

WE DON’T NEED THE UN.

Unknowingly, Jing Yo had stumbled onto a protest against the war. It was aimed at the UN a few blocks away.

The prudent thing would have been to take one of the side streets and walk away. Jing Yo guessed that the police would have agents in the crowd taking pictures, and if the authorities decided to move in, they wouldn’t care if he said he was just out for a stroll. But he was too curious to simply turn around. He was surprised, even fascinated by the fact that these people seemed to be supporting China, or at least not criticizing it. None of them seemed to be Chinese.

A man was speaking from the back of a pickup truck that had been driven onto the island divider at East Forty-first Street. The loudspeaker blared. “Vietnam started this war. Let the Chinese finish it. Keep the UN out.”

There were several dozen policemen nearby, lining the street behind him. Police cars, lights flashing, blocked the road.

Jing Yo turned and surveyed the crowd. As he looked at the signs, he realized many had nothing to do with the war.

BRING DOWN GAS PRICES!

BIG $$ BLEEDING US DRY!

HAVE YOU SHOT A BANKER TODAY?

There had been demonstrations like this in China. Many had turned violent, generally with provocation. The police would pick their moment and wade in to make arrests. Knowing this, the people would pick up rocks and other things to throw. Bricks. They would be waiting, something in each hand, for the inevitable charge. A few would have guns.

People began jostling Jing Yo, trying to get closer to the speaker. Deciding he’d indulged his curiosity long enough, he started moving back through the knots of people. A few shouted at him, making points that he couldn’t understand through their accents.

Finally he managed to reach the side street. He walked back west through midtown, then cut around once