“That’s when I’ll be back,” he told her. “Where should we meet?”
“I…” She smiled. “I will meet you upstairs.”
Zeus hadn’t realized until then they were in a bunker. They went down the hall, where an older woman sat behind floor-length bars that blocked off part of the hall and a side room. She had white hair, sunken cheeks, and a deep frown. Her arms were covered with large liver spots. Before Zeus could say anything, she got up from her chair, said a few words in Vietnamese, and went into the room.
“She’ll get your clothes,” said the woman.
“Your name,” said Zeus. “So I know who to ask for.”
“Doctor Anway.”
Of course she was a doctor, not a nurse. Duh.
“Doctor,” said Zeus, bowing his head.
She smiled, shaking her head — not quite a laugh, but certainly amused.
He went up four flights, stiff-legged, clogs clunking the whole way. A guard stood at the top of the last flight. He wore a helmet and a flak vest, and stared at the wall opposite him, unsmiling, his hand near the trigger guard of his AK-47. He said nothing as Zeus passed.
The doors at the end of the landing opened into a large, dimly lit space that smelled like damp concrete. Zeus shuffled toward a red light at the far end, where another stairway led upward. The top of that landing was guarded by two soldiers, who snapped to attention as soon his feet clapped on the first tread.
Zeus walked past them into the ground floor of a building that at first glance seemed entirely abandoned. The wide hall before him extended some twenty feet, where it opened into a wide room of desks and low partitions. The overhead lights were off, but sunlight flooded through from the left side of the building. The air smelled like dust and ozone, as if there had been an electrical fire. When Zeus reached the open area, he saw rubble to the right; two more steps and he realized that the far side of the building had collapsed.
A woman in a light-brown khaki uniform stood at the far end of the room. She was talking on what looked to Zeus like a cordless phone. Looking up, she gestured to him, signaling for him to approach as she continued her conversation.
The floor tiles had been freshly mopped. Aside from the crumbled stone that had been part of the building wall, there was no other sign of wreckage or destruction — no scattered papers, no debris or refuse. The desks Zeus passed were immaculately clean.
“You are the American,” she said, still holding the phone. It was a satellite phone, an older model.
“Yes,” said Zeus.
“Go through the door that way,” she said, pointing to Zeus’s left. There was a large red door that opened outward. “That is the exit.”
“Is this building okay?” he asked.
“Go through the door to the left,” she repeated.
She looked at him, obviously expecting an answer.
“All right,” he said. “Okay.”
She resumed her conversation on the phone as if he weren’t there.
The crash bar on the door gave way reluctantly. Zeus had to muscle the door open, the edges chafing against the sides.
The door opened into a concrete courtyard. The sunlight was intense, washing out his view. Piles of stone and construction rubble lined both sides of the space. A gray-brick building rose some fifty feet away. There were no windows, just a blank wall of bricks.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, Zeus saw that the opposite wall had the outline of another structure — the building, or part of one, that until very recently had stood where the courtyard was. It had been reduced entirely to rubble by the raid.
Zeus found a path to the street. Two troop trucks idled next to the sidewalk, but there were no soldiers nearby.
He had no idea where he was. He was about to go back and ask the woman to get him a ride when a boy of twelve or thirteen called to him from across the street.
“Joe, you need ride?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess I need a ride,” Zeus answered.
The boy turned and darted to his left. The buildings across the street were three stories high, storefronts topped by apartments. All were intact, though the closest one to the right had large boards covering what had been plate glass windows. As he stared, Zeus noticed that some of the apartment windows had been blown out; curtains poked through the empty spaces, fluttering with the light wind.
A bicycle rode up to his left. It was the boy who’d called to him.
“Where you go, Joe?” asked the kid.
“Hanoi’s Finest Hotel,” said Zeus. It wasn’t a description — that was the name of his hotel.
“Very good. Five minutes.”
“How?”
The boy started describing the directions, speaking in a mixture of Vietnamese and English.
“No,” said Zeus. “I mean, where do I get the taxi?”
“No taxi. No more. I ride you.”
“On this bike?”
“Very strong.” The kid rattled the bike, as if its sturdiness were the actual issue. “It hold you good.”
“There’s only one seat. Where are am I going to ride?”
The boy stood over the frame; Zeus would sit on the seat while he pedaled.
“I’ll pedal,” said Zeus.
The kid made a face.
“What’s your name?” Zeus asked.
“Lincoln.”
Clearly, that wasn’t the case. But it made Zeus smile. He took the bike, positioned himself over the seat and the pedals, then told the kid he could sit on the handlebar.
“You pay first,” said the kid. “Five dollars.”
“Five dollars?”
“Three good.”
“I don’t have any money with me,” said Zeus. “I’ll pay when we get to the hotel.”
“No pay, no ride,” said the boy, grabbing the bike with both hands. His look was so ferocious Zeus laughed.
“I’ll give you ten when we reach the hotel,” said Zeus. “Okay?”
“Deal, Joe. You pedal.” He climbed up on the front of the bike.
“Where’d you learn English?” Zeus asked.
“School.”
“Just school?”
“Internet. Very good teacher.”
“I guess. Tell me when to turn.”
Zeus struggled to get his balance and to get going — the tight pants and clogs made it difficult. He finally kicked off the clogs and managed a steady pace.
The boy began talking, showing off how much he knew about America. His name was Linkin, not Lincoln; he had adopted it not from a study of American presidents but from Linkin Park, the rock bank, which apparently he knew from YouTube. He described a video of the latest
