Shock of War (30 page)

The nurses watched her intently, as did the nearby patients. It seemed to Zeus that every eye in the place was watching her. And why shouldn't they?

Anna glanced in his direction as she finished. A smile broke across her lips.

Zeus started to push away from the wall to go toward her. She made the slightest motion with her head, telling him not to. Then she pointed at a patient next to the bed she had just checked—one more, she was telling him, then they could be together.

He understood perfectly. It was as if their minds were already joined.

There was a commotion out in the hall, people arguing. Zeus stepped around and looked out the door to see what was going on.

Two men in hospital scrubs were wheeling a gurney quickly down the hall. A third chased after them, his white lab coat flying open. He was angry, his face red. A patient lay on the stretcher, a bag of plasma on his chest. He was moaning, covered with blood.

The men rushed past. A nurse came out of the room behind him. Then Anna, her perfume sweet and pungent in the air. She passed as if she didn't notice him, walking briskly after the others.

They all went into a room a few doors away across the hall. Zeus followed in time to see the nurse who'd 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

Washington, D.C.

Walter Jackson hated
going to diplomatic receptions for a host of reasons. Now President Greene had given him a fresh one—he had to speak pleasantly to the Russian ambassador, a man he loathed. It didn't help that the end result of the conversation might or might not be legal, in his opinion. The fact that it would help a country he'd never been particularly fond of was icing on the cake.

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 his pocket. “Cubans.”

America still had a ban against certain Cuban exports—including cigars. Technically, Jackson was violating the law by smoking one.

The things one was forced to do in the name of national security.

“I suppose I might,” said Jackson, taking the long Figurado.

Goldenachov turned to the women. “If you would excuse me for a moment, we are going to pollute the air.”

*   *   *

President Greene was sitting up in bed,
one eye on the television, the other on a briefing paper relating to suggested changes in the upcoming health care legislation. It was almost 11:30. He'd switched off the Lakers game—they were being pummeled—and was waiting for Jon Stewart to come on. Even though Stewart rode him unmercifully, his show was a secret pleasure.

A top-secret pleasure. But damn, the guy was just
funny
. And Greene's wife was away, which meant she wouldn't needle him for watching it.

The phone rang. The White House operator told him Jackson was calling.

“Put him through.”

His National Security adviser's voice boomed in his ear a second later. He sounded out of breath.

“Good evening, Mr. President. I'm just on my way back from the reception.”

“Walter, how did we do?”

“It's set. We'll use the arrangements we used in Malaysia. The sales will appear to come from Georgia through Syria. The agency can go ahead.”

“Were there complications?”

“The only serious ones were to my lungs,” said Jackson.

“To your lungs?”

“I'll explain tomorrow.” Jackson started to say something, then stopped.

“What is it?” asked Greene.

“I don't know that this is a good idea.”

“Stopping China?”

“Working with the Russians.”

“It's a terrible idea, Walter. But at the moment, it's the best one we have,” said Greene. “Excellent. I'll call Frost at the CIA in the morning and have him make the arrangements. Good work, Walter. Have a good sleep.”

“I'll try,” said Jackson. “First, I'm taking the world's longest and hottest shower. I may even douse myself with disinfectant.”

26

Hanoi

It was Anna who moved first.
Everyone else in the small hospital room was frozen in place. She took a step back from the man she'd just been working to save, turned, and walked from the room.

Zeus had trouble getting his legs to work. He'd seen plenty of deaths before, had killed more than his share of men. It was a necessity, a duty, a job in war.

This was different.

He pushed his feet to move, shuffling at first, then striding, moving purposely. He went out of the room and turned into the hall, looking for Anna.

She'd disappeared. He walked quickly to the large ward room and looked inside. She wasn't there. His eyes met the gaze of a nurse, who was looking at him for an explanation:
What had the shot been about?

He broke her gaze quickly and hurried down the hall, looking in each ward. He went to the end of the hall, where the woman who had given him clothes the day before looked at him with a blank, shocked expression.

“Where did Anna go?” he demanded. “Dr. Anway?”

But of course the woman didn't speak English. She could only stare, uncomprehending, speechless. Zeus turned and went up the stairs, trotting, then running.

He caught up to her on the sidewalk outside, near the end of the block. She was still wearing the gloves she'd had on in the hospital room. Blood had splattered on her.

Spots stained her face.

Zeus reached to wipe them off, and she collapsed in his arms.

*   *   *

He found her apartment
without difficulty. She didn't have her keys, but the lock was easily forced with the help of Zeus's identity card.

He carried her into her room and put her on the bed. Then he went to her kitchen and looked for the kettle to make some tea.

There was no running water. Zeus opened the refrigerator, and found there was no light—the electricity was off as well.

A jug of water sat on the counter. He poured some into the teapot, then went to the stove. There was still gas, and there matches at the side. The burner lit with a loud
pul-ufff
.

The sound was odd—Zeus's ears were still shocked from the sound of the gun.

God, why had they had killed the man? Because he was Chinese?

I should have stopped him. But how? It was over before I realized what was happening. I never expected it.

The kettle began to shake. Zeus started looking for tea.

He found a canister on the counter filled with loose tea leaves. He looked through the drawer for something to hold them in, but all he could find was a strainer in the sink washboard. Examining it, he vaguely remembered what Anna had done the other night—the loose tea went directly into the kettle, and was strained when the liquid was poured into the cups.

How much should he use?

Zeus poured water into two cups, then dumped what was left into the sink. Belatedly, he realized he should have poured it into another pot, saving the water—who knew if it would come back on? But it was too late for that now.

He poured the hot water back into the kettle, measured out two spoonfuls of tea, and dumped it in. He stirred it around, and watched it steep.

The result looked too weak. He added a third spoonful.

Zeus maneuvered the pot and strainer carefully, filling the cups.

Anna met him at the door to the bedroom. She wasn't wearing any clothes.

“I—” The words died on his tongue. She took his arm and tugged him toward the bed, wordlessly asking him to join her there.

Zeus put the cups down on the floor, and did as she asked.