woman, apparently asking questions.
“Do you know… the next flight? When?” asked Zeus, trying to simplify what he wanted to know. “Is there another flight?”
The man said something in Chinese. Zeus didn’t understand the words, but the meaning itself was clear: He had no idea.
Most of the people at the gate remained in their seats. Zeus guessed that the airline was making other arrangements, and they had been told to wait.
Or maybe not. Maybe the entire airport was closed. Maybe they thought they were under attack.
He told himself to calm down, to relax and think it through. He was a businessman, not a saboteur — be aggravated, annoyed, not alarmed.
“What are we going to do?” Christian asked.
“I’ll ask what the story is,” said Zeus. “Maybe some of the airline people speak English. Come on.”
“Right behind you,” hissed Christian.
They joined the small knot of people near the attendant. Zeus stood patiently, hoping to hear someone speaking English. He didn’t.
The people around him were mostly men, speaking quickly and not very politely. The woman fended them off with short bursts, giving as good as she got. It struck him that she was speaking the universal language of airline gate attendants:
“Excuse me,” said Zeus as the cacophony around him hit a lull. “Do you speak English?”
“Flight cancel,” said the woman.
“Why?”
She turned to another passenger, who was saying something else. By the time she turned back in Zeus’s direction, it was obvious she had forgotten what he had said.
“Is there another flight?” asked Zeus. “Will there
“Oh, yes.”
“When is the flight?”
Again she started to turn away to answer a different passenger. Zeus reached forward and touched her arm. The woman jerked back.
“I’m sorry,” said Zeus. “When is the flight?”
“No flight,” said the woman. She added something in Chinese, then began answering a man to Zeus’s right.
Deciding he wasn’t going to get any more information from her, Zeus took a few steps back.
The first order of business was to look for Solt Jan. Zeus turned to his left and faced the large aisle at the center of the gate area. He began scanning the faces of the crowd, examining each one in turn. The Vietnamese agent was a small woman, thin and petite.
Zeus turned almost completely around without spotting her.
“What do you think?” Christian’s voice trembled.
“She must have gone back into the city,” said Zeus. “It’s just as well; they might suspect her. Let’s just play this through. We find an airline person who speaks English. We’re businessmen, stranded because of our flight. Just play it through.”
“What if we can’t get to Hong Kong?”
Zeus shook his head. There were plenty of alternatives.
“I don’t like this,” said Christian.
“Here. Have some crisps.”
Zeus held the top of the bag in his two hands and began pulling the sides apart slowly, trying to keep the bag intact as he ripped it. It required a certain amount of finesse, strength, and restraint at the same time.
The bag top separated cleanly. He held the chips out to Christian. “Here,” he said. “Have one.”
Someone tapped Zeus from behind. He spun around, surprised.
“You are Mr. Murphy,” said a short man in a Chinese army uniform. It didn’t sound like a question.
“Excuse me?”
“You are Murphy?”
Zeus hesitated. If he said no and the man asked for his passport, then what would he do? Run?
Zeus looked at his uniform. It was light tan. He was an officer, a captain.
What did the insignia mean? Air force?
Would the airline have sent him?
The officer started to put out his hand; Zeus guessed that he was about to ask for his ID.
“I’m Murphy,” he admitted.
The Chinese officer said nothing, turning instead to Christian.
“You are Christian,” he said.
Christian had nearly crossed his eyes. He looked at Zeus, undoubtedly wondering why the hell he had agreed.
Play it through, Zeus thought. We’re businessmen.
“Mr. Christian?” repeated the officer.
“Yes?” said Christian finally.
“You are to come with me.”
The officer turned sharply. Two other men, these in blue uniforms, stood a short distance away, watching. Zeus noticed that they had unsnapped to the protective strap at the top of their holsters, allowing free access to their sidearms.
“What’s going on?” asked Christian.
The officer stopped abruptly. He wore a deep frown.
“You will follow me,” he said again, in a voice that brooked no argument.
3
“Allergies,” he mumbled, getting up from his seat. “I just…need…a…tish — ”
He sneezed before he could finish the sentence.
Mumbling another apology, Josh made his way to the private restroom at the side of the office, pushing through the door as his body was wracked by a quick success of sneezes.
His allergies had saved his life in Vietnam. But on the whole, he would just as well do without them.
There were no more tissues in the box on the shelf above the sink. Josh grabbed a length of toilet paper and unfurled it, folding it over quickly and then trying to clear the mess from his nose. It was a lost cause, as were antihistamines, saline sprays, and all manner of remedies he’d tried over the years. Removing the allergen was the only
But what the hell was the allergen here, midway up the UN building, in the middle of a block of offices whose windows didn’t even open?
Josh sneezed again. He cleared his nose, dumped some of the paper into the toilet, and flushed. He sneezed, blew his nose, then felt his sinuses clear a bit.
Sneezing fit finally over, he turned to the sink and ran the cold water, splashing on it on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked more than a little worse for wear.
