come from the ward bending over the patient. The angry man in the lab coat yelled something; the nurse stepped back. Everyone except Anna froze. Anna, glancing at the man who had yelled, stepped over and lifted the sheet from his midsection. He was covered in blood.
The angry man took hold of Anna’s arm. Pain seized her face.
Zeus sprang forward, grabbing the man’s shoulder so hard he let go of Anna and started to fall. Zeus spun him around and held him upright.
The angry man looked up at Zeus.
“Leave her alone,” said Zeus sharply. “Don’t touch her.”
The man began stuttering something. Zeus let go, pushing him back as he did. The man stumbled but caught his balance. He backed out of the room.
“Please, you must leave,” Anna told Zeus.
By the time he turned to look at her, she had gone back to work on the patient. She spoke quickly in Vietnamese to the nurse, who went to a side cabinet and began pulling out packages of gauze and other items.
Another nurse rushed in, wheeling a tray of instruments. Another came in, pushing a machine. The room suddenly smelled of rubbing alcohol and antiseptic.
Anna continued to work, hands moving swiftly and surely. The others moved around her frenetically, but she stayed calm, completely in control.
Zeus backed against the wall, mesmerized. A heart monitor was hooked up. The machine beeped erratically. Zeus noticed the man had his boots on — he was a soldier, in a dark green uniform.
Not Vietnamese. He must be a Chinese prisoner.
An airman, maybe. His uniform was baggy — a flight suit.
Footsteps clicked down the hall, then into the room. The angry man had returned. He had an officer with him.
The angry man in the lab coat began haranguing Anna. Zeus started to go forward, determined to pull him off again.
The officer stepped up next to the man in the lab coat and raised his arm. He had a pistol.
Two shots echoed in the small room. The noise was the loudest Zeus had ever heard, louder than any explosion, louder than any shout or scream. Before he could react, before anyone could react, the officer turned on his heel and left the room.
The man on the gurney was dead, the top of his head blown away.
25
But such were the riddles and twists of national security in the twenty-first century. Greene needed someone at a very high level to push through the deal, someone he could trust if things went wrong.
Jackson had studied the Nixon presidency for his doctorate. He had been deeply ambivalent about Henry Kissinger, whose Realpolitik had opened China to the West and balanced it against the USSR, contributing greatly to the eventual end of the cold war.
Kissinger had also overseen a policy toward North Vietnam that was an utter failure.
And here it all was again: same players dancing in different roles.
The crisis helped Russia in several ways. The price of oil had skyrocketed. Meanwhile, they were selling a good amount of weapons to China, and to other countries — notably India — anxious about China. At the same time, the conflict was absorbing China, a neighbor they increasingly worried about.
The longer China’s war in Vietnam went on, the better for Russia. So it was in their interest to help Vietnam, as long as it could be done covertly.
Things could be worse, Jackson told himself as he stepped from the back of the town car that had taken him to the embassy. The reception could have been black tie.
Jackson ran the gauntlet of the reception area, bowing to the hosts and a few celebrity guests, a smile pasted firmly on his lips. Inside the nearby ballroom, a band that didn’t look particularly Polish played light jazz. Guests mingled in front of easels of abstract landscapes said to be inspired by the Polish countryside. To Jackson’s jaundiced eye, they looked more like nightmares of color, with purple being a particular favorite.
He moved with purpose toward the bar at one side of the large ballroom. A broad-shouldered man with a Fu Manchu mustache greeted him.
“Would you be able to make a Manhattan?” Jackson asked.
“Of course,” said the bartender.
“Good. Then hold the whiskey, and just give me a sweet vermouth.”
Fu Manchu smirked and reached back for the vermouth. “Rocks?”
“Yes.”
“With a cherry?”
“Hold that.”
Jackson took the drink and stepped aside. As he lifted the glass to his lips he was shocked to see a former student standing in front of him. He recognized him a second before he could put a name to the face, then suddenly it came back: James Ferico.
“James?” said Jackson.
“Professor?”
They exchanged the mandatory how-are-you’s and why-are-you-here’s. Ferico knew Jackson’s answers, but Jackson was surprised and somewhat cheered by his former student’s: he had just published a biography that the Polish ambassador, for some unknown reason, had read and liked; the ambassador was so taken with it that he had invited him to the reception.
“Trying to pad the crowd, probably,” said Ferico self-deprecatingly. “Maybe the first set of guests saw the paintings beforehand.”
Jackson smiled. “I didn’t know you published a book.”
“I’ll send you a copy.”
“No, I insist on buying one,” said Jackson. “Then you’ll have to autograph it for me. Tell me, what else are you doing?”
Ferico was working as a “creative” with a Madison Avenue advertising company. “A little art, little video, sometimes writing.”
“No foreign policy?” said Jackson.
Ferico laughed. “Not if I can help it.”
They refilled their drinks. Jackson was having such a good time talking to him that he almost forgot why he came. But then he saw the Polish ambassador, holding court on the other side of the room. He excused himself after extracting a promise from Ferico to have lunch.
“I am surprised to see you here, Dr. Jackson,” said Gregor Goldenachov after Jackson sidled over. “Usually you do not join the social swirl.”
“I make exceptions.”
“An art lover,” the ambassador told the two women hovering next to him. Jackson calculated that, if their ages were added together, they would still be about a third short of Goldenachov’s.
“It is a lovely night,” said Jackson.
“Indeed.”
“A good night for a stroll.”
Goldenachov raised his eyebrow. “Perhaps you would care to share a cigar,” he suggested. He reached into
