Edge of War

It’d be easiest to take the scientist here. There was a parking lot right across the street where Jing Yo could park and watch. Once he identified his car, the rest would be easy. He could take him then or, more likely, get him when he returned from the building. If he was with the senator, so much the better.

The problem was, Jing Yo didn’t know if the scientist was going to be here. The senator’s schedule noted that a meeting was supposed to be arranged to talk to an expert “prior to UN.”

“TBA” was the annotation.

TBA. Jing Yo had had to look the abbreviation up on the Web. “To be announced,” it said. Or “to be arranged.” So the appointment was still tentative.

If he had to kill him at the UN, he would have to use his bare hands. The bookmarked references made it clear that security would be very tight, even for employees. Jing Yo’s passes would take him pretty much anywhere he wanted to go, but even a diplomat could not bring a gun into the building.

The school, on the other hand, would be easy. It was not yet in session, but there were already teachers and other staff members inside. A pair of policemen stood at the front, looking bored.

Jing Yo swung through the parking lot and went back onto the street, continuing to a second minimall a few hundred yards away. He pulled in and took out his laptop.

The senator’s schedule had been updated. The meeting with the scientist was now on it, an addendum beneath the entry to the senator’s second appointment of the morning, an 11 a.m. presentation at the New York Hall of Science, where the senator was being thanked for obtaining a federal grant.

CHINA/VIET BRF — J. MACARTHUR — 11:10

Jing Yo put the laptop into sleep mode, then backed out of the parking space.

“New York Hall of Science,” he told the GPS, even though he thought he could remember the way.

25

Washington, D.C.

One of the perks of being president was never having to wait at an airline gate for the flight to leave. Air Force One was always ready when you were ready.

On the other hand, getting to the airport could be a major hassle, especially when you couldn’t just hop aboard Marine One. Even stripped to its essentials, the presidential motorcade made the process a bit cumbersome — though at least it didn’t have to stop for traffic lights.

But this morning’s trip through the Washington suburbs was President Greene’s fault, a direct result not just of his decision to take the little girl to New York with him, but of his opinion that M? should be allowed to sleep as late as she wanted. So rather than having Turner Cole take her to the air base and meet them there, Greene decided he would stop off at Cole’s house and take her himself.

Cole’s house was, in fact, very close to the airport, which calmed the Secret Service objections about the arrangements, at least to the point where the agents didn’t protest for too long when Greene told them in the morning that they were making an unscheduled stop. In his short time in office, Greene had made a habit of overruling his bodyguards. To hear them tell it, he had already vetoed their arrangements and advice more than any three of his predecessors.

It might very well he true. Having survived a shooting war, not to mention Washington itself, he knew a thing or two about risk taking.

Picking up M? himself, Greene decided, would give him the chance of talking to her alone for a while in the car. He needed to build a rapport. It wouldn’t be tough; he was a great grandfather. All his grandkids said so.

The limos stopped in front of the brick colonial. Secret Service agents were already spread out on the lawn. The front door was open; Turner Cole stood centered in it.

Greene got out. He was going to do this right — this child was going to see exactly how grandfatherly he could be.

Hell, maybe they’d take in an amusement park over the weekend. It had been ages since he’d been on a roller coaster. He loved those damn things.

“Mr. President, very good to see you this morning,” said Cole as Greene strode up the walk.

“Turner. So, where’s my little girl?”

“She’s upstairs, sir. Uh…”

Greene didn’t like the sound of that “uh.” “Out with it, Cole,” he snapped.

“Sir — ”

“You might want to get in the residence,” suggested one of the nearby Secret Service agents.

Greene stepped inside.

“M? is upstairs,” said Cole, still mispronouncing the name. “She, uh, she’s a little resistant.”

The translator and the psychologist, along with a CIA officer, two federal marshals, and some of the Secret Service detail, were standing in the living room. Cole’s wife had taken the children to school. A nurse was upstairs with M?.

“All right, the president wants the entire story,” said Greene, addressing the small crowd. “And he wants it unvarnished. This is a no-bullshit zone. Out with it.”

“Well, the psychologist seems to feel that reliving the — going back over what happened to her family would be traumatic at this point,” said Cole when no one else would speak. His tone was reluctant in the extreme.

“It’s no more traumatic than what happened to her in the first place,” said Greene.

He looked at the psychologist, a kind of dorky-looking type with unkempt hair and blue jeans.

“You’re the psychiatrist, right?” said Greene.

“Child psychologist, sir.”

“Whatever. What’s the problem?”

“Reliving the trauma, at this point — ”

“She’s not reliving it. She’s telling the world about it. She’s saving her people.”

“Damn it,” cursed Greene, “sometimes individuals have to make sacrifices for the better good.”

“She’s already made a hell of a sacrifice,” said the psychologist. “With respect.”

“Maybe we could tape her talking,” said Cole. “Not bringing her in front of all those people.”

“Where is she?” demanded Greene. “Upstairs?” He started for the steps. “I want to talk to her. Myself. Now.”

The retinue paraded up the stairs. Cole had given M? her own room, sandwiched between the master bedroom and his oldest daughter’s.

“Everybody but the translator stay out,” said Greene. “You, too, Frankenstein,” he joked to the Secret Service agent next to him. “No offense, but you’ll scare the kid.”

“Sir, I — ”

“If I can’t handle a seven-year-old, this country is in serious trouble,” said Greene.

The nurse, who’d been sitting in a rocker, jumped to her feet as Greene came in. M? remained sitting on the floor, in front of scattering of wooden blocks, Legos, and a toy kitchen set. She had an airplane in her hands. She looked up at Greene with a puzzled expression when he came in.

“Josh?” she said.

“Josh had to go do some important work,” said Greene, sitting down next to her. As he listened to the translator explain, Greene realized she wasn’t going to understand, no matter what words he used.

“Nice airplane,” he told her, pointing.

She handed it to him. It happened to be an F-4 Phantom.

“Thank you. I used to fly one of these. The stories I could tell.” He circled it around the air, ducking and diving, making airplane noises.

M? tucked her elbows against her ribs, apprehensive.

“You saw these from the other direction, huh?” said Greene, suddenly realizing that she was scared of the plane. He stopped flying it and handed it back to her. She took it, then threw it angrily against the wall.

“Bad plane, huh?” said Greene.

The Vietnamese words came back to him as the translator spoke.