seem to please anyone. They began murmuring and making clucking sounds with their tongues. The man behind Zeus said something out loud that made the airline official redden. The two men began arguing; other passengers joined in. Finally, the airline official left.
“What the hell is going on?” Christian asked.
“Does anyone here speak English?” asked Zeus, deciding there was no sense keeping quiet anymore.
A young woman — the only woman in their group — said something in Chinese, which prompted one of the older men near them to begin speaking to them. It was clear he was trying to explain the predicament, but Zeus had no way of understanding the words. He listened as carefully as he could, and nodded to encourage the man to continue, but the sounds flowed over him like the ocean.
“Let’s go find somebody that can help us,” insisted Christian. “Or at least get to Solt. Hell.”
“She may not be using that name,” said Zeus.
“I don’t care anymore,” said Christian. “I want to get the hell out of here. I feel claustrophobic.”
“Relax.”
“Don’t tell me that anymore,” said Christian, starting for the door. “My head’s going to explode.”
The airline official who’d been speaking inside was talking to another employee in the hallway. Christian strode up to him and in a loud voice demanded to know what was going on.
The airline official briefly glanced at him, then went back to his own intense discussion with his fellow employee.
Christian grabbed his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
The airline official jumped away from Christian’s grip.
“Easy, Win,” Zeus told Christian. “You’re not helping. He doesn’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
The airline official stepped back, hands out in horror. His companion began backing up the hall.
“He didn’t mean anything,” Zeus told them. “He’s just a little tired.”
The airline officials exchanged a look, then retreated farther into the building.
“Let’s go after them,” said Christian. “There has to be somebody who works for the airline who speaks English.”
“They’ll get somebody. Wait,” said Zeus. But Christian had already started after them.
Reluctantly, Zeus followed in the direction that the two men had taken. A pair of policemen stood in the hallway just around the corner, blocking the way.
“Excuse me,” said Christian.
Neither man moved. Zeus saw that Christian’s face was beet red again, and his voice was shaky.
“Do you speak English?” Zeus asked the policemen. “A little? We’re trying to find out what’s going on. No one seems to be able to help us.”
The man on the right said something in a sharp tone, then pointed behind them, indicating they should return to the room.
“What if we don’t want to go back?” snapped Christian.
The policeman began gesticulating, thrusting his finger toward Christian’s chest as he spoke in a rapid and clearly angry Chinese staccato.
Zeus suddenly had a premonition of what was going to happen.
“No!” he yelled, reaching for Christian.
But it was too late.
“I’m not taking this shit anymore!” said Christian, launching a left hook that caught his antagonist square in the side of the head.
11
Josh went right to bed, and fell asleep as soon as he’d pulled the thin blanket over his chest. He slept soundly, and woke smoothly and quickly, rising in the unfamiliar room about a half hour before dawn.
The heat was on, but after Vietnam, it felt cold. He pulled on a sweatshirt, then went to take a walk.
“Hey now, where do you think you’re going, son?” asked the marshal sitting in the hallway when he emerged from his room. He had a Texas accent, accentuated by a pair of scuffed boots that poked far out of his pant legs.
“Walk,” said Josh.
“Uh, not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
The Texan blinked at him.
Josh shrugged and went to the stairs. The marshal hesitated for a moment, then got up to follow.
The crisp air outside felt bracing. The motel was located at the end of the town’s business district, a mix of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Victorian storefronts and 1960s-era highway development. The stylistic mishmash was comforting to Josh — it reminded him of the area where he’d grown up. A large Mobil sign lit the corner ahead. Josh walked to it, thinking he would find a cup of coffee there. But the station wasn’t open yet. He continued through the lot, trailed by his bodyguard, who for some reason didn’t seem inclined to get very close.
A light shone through the window of a cement block building across the street. Josh glanced both ways, then crossed toward it. The place turned out to be a bagel shop, and there were people inside — the baker and his helper, along with two customers who sat talking at a corner table as Josh came in. Coffee was served at a counter to the side. Josh helped himself to a cup, then went and got two bagels.
“I’ll get it,” said the Texan, coming into the shop.
“Thanks,” said Josh. He stood back and waited while the marshal poured himself a coffee. The two customers were talking about a high school football game, apparently played years before.
“Feel like walking some more?” asked Josh when the marshal finished paying.
He nodded.
Josh started to go out the door when the headline on the local newspaper caught his eye.
QUESTIONS RAISED ON
CHINA INVASION CLAIM
Invasion? It was a massacre, not just an invasion.
He nearly bumped into the marshal as he turned back to look at the paper. It was a tabloid, and the headline, in large bold type, ran over an unrelated photo of a local house fire. It referred to a story inside the paper.
Josh went back and bought the paper. He stood back from the counter, folding the paper over so he could read it.
Chinese officials immediately questioned whether the footage was authentic.
“All along, the Vietnamese have been very adept at manipulating public opinion,” said Xi Hing Lee, a Chinese representative to the UN. “They have posted things on YouTube that are clearly fake.”
“And I guess the missile on the bridge was made up, too?” said Josh aloud.
“Not here,” said the marshal, in a gruff, though barely audible voice.
Josh continued reading. The story basically called him a liar, reporting the Chinese claims that the talk of atrocities was propaganda initiated by the Vietnamese.
He folded the newspaper beneath his arm as calmly as he could, took a small sip of coffee, then left the shop. This time, the marshal stayed with him as he walked down the street.
“What the hell?” said Josh, turning toward him. “I mean, what the hell?”
