Courier (26 page)

He walked across the street and up the steps to the restaurant. The illuminated sign was off, and a "Closed" placard was propped in the small window next to the door.

Nevertheless, the door opened as he came up the steps. Immaculately dressed and in flawless makeup, Mrs Jin welcomed him in. The lights in the front dining room were off, but he could see tableware and candles gleaming in the smaller room in the back.

These dinners had become a tradition over the years. The one small, warm piece of home and holiday in both of their lives. It was dangerous – might make them vulnerable – but neither of them was willing to shut the door on this last vestige of emotion.

She offered her cheek, and, careful not to actually touch, he brought his lips close and away. She closed the door behind him.

 

In jeans but no shirt, Rick was doing sit-ups when Eve awoke. She rolled over and watched the hypnotic repetition, the flex and pull of his muscles and the long, ridged scars crisscrossing his upper body like zippers. He knew instantly that she was watching, but he kept on going until he hit a hundred. Then he turned to face her and began to do slow, deep push-ups.

"You don't sleep much, do you?" she asked.

"Not anymore."

"Ever feel like talking about it?"

He looked down and concentrated on the floor as his shoulders bunched and swelled. After a few more push-ups, he looked up and said, "Talked about it, wrote it down, went to shrinks. Once I tried to write a country song about it."

"How did that work out?"

"Turned out my singing was a war crime."

She watched in silence again for a while. Then she said, "So, what are you going to do about it?"

"Keep working on it." He looked down again. "There doesn't seem to be a quick and easy cure. Drugs and drinking don't work for me. I won't deny that I've gone off the beam – let anger or fear push me into some scary places. It'll probably happen again. Always have to work to get back to – maybe not normal, but…" Another pause. "Exercise helps; that and it keeps a lot of body parts working that the NVA did their best to turn into hamburger." Another pause. "Sleep is overrated." He looked up at her and smiled. "Although I will admit that some good things can happen in the process."

She returned his smile and then rolled onto her back, stretching her shoulders. "Should we be doing something? I mean, about the film and all."

"Christmas means empty streets and long sight lines."

She turned her head to him. "That's sad if that's all Christmas means."

"When you grow up with drunks, holidays are pretty much the worst time of year." With a puff, he finished his workout and rolled over onto his back. "Not that the rest of the time is all that great, but at least it isn't supposed to be magical and happy. Funny thing is how long you believe that everyone is as miserable as you are – that it's just the way things are supposed to be."

Rick stood up and began making a fire. "Do your people celebrate Christmas?"

"My people?" She sat up and pulled on his T-shirt, then headed for the kitchen area and started to make coffee. "A good number of the Northern Cheyenne - converted early on. It didn't keep the army from killing us, but now we get Christmas trees, Easter baskets, and all that. You'd be amazed what a normal American life I've led."

"No drums and dancing?"

Holding two steaming cups, she walked over to the sofa and sat. "No, we have that, too. When I was a kid, I loved the drum festivals – felt like I could dance all day. I guess the mixture should have been confusing, but somehow, it wasn't. It was just the way our family did things."

Rick dug out the Zippo from his pocket and set the flame to the posters under a new set of logs. Then he came back to the couch and took a cup from her. "Now, that sounds good. Tell me about your best Christmas ever."

 

Mrs Jin pushed the door from the kitchen with her back, swept into the private dining room, and placed the elegantly prepared duck on the small table. It was perfect – the skin crisp, the slices paper-thin, green onions and plum sauce on either side. She had done it all herself – the staff were enjoying their single day off. She only cooked one dinner a year and only for one man.

The room was perfect. The candles dim enough forthe aged velvet wallpaper to look brand-new, the flames dancing through the crystal glasses and reflecting off the polished silver. None of the usual cheap stainless steel utensils or thick functional glassware would be used tonight.

She watched with a well-hidden lurch of fear as he appraised the dinner, then relaxed as he looked up at her, and gave her a smile so slight that it would have gone unnoticed by anyone else.

"It's perfect. Please join me."

She bowed slightly and sat at the other side of the table. "I'm glad. I keep my promise for another year."

He raised a glass of wine and toasted her. "To another year." They drank, and then he said, "You know, you don't have to do this."

"I know." She took another tiny sip of wine, careful of her lipstick. "It's the doing of what I do not have to do, but which I want to do, that makes it worthwhile."

 

 

Mrs Jin – there had never been a "Mr Jin" – took another sip of wine and watched as he began to eat. It had taken many years to find him again, years where she had grown, learned, and begun to play in the dangerous games between nations. She'd kept the T-shirt with his name stenciled across the chest, and finally, she stood in front of him in a Saigon restaurant, bowed low, and offered him Christmas dinner.

He had looked at her with the same quiet in his eyes – that look of inner silence.

"It's been a long time. I'd be delighted to share Christmas with you."

CHAPTER 30

 

In Kansas City, Harry Truman had died during the night. In a Washington already in post-Christmas slow motion, his passing was noted by government offices that simply didn't reopen and flags that flew at halfmast. The bombers started their raids again – giving Hanoi hell in the old man's memory.

Rick turned off the radio and said, "More guys are going to die. Those B-52s can't maneuver worth a damn."

Across the room, Eve was braiding her hair. "Then I guess it's time to get going, Trooper."

Rick was heading up to Capitol Hill to retrieve the evidence and contact Dina while Eve ran down some people in AIM to find if they had a safe way of getting out of the city. He figured that whoever was searching for them was used to seeing two on a bike. Splitting up might change the profile.

At the door, she came up and put her arms around him. "Stay alive, will ya?"

He pulled out the Zippo and showed it to her.

She stepped back and looked at it doubtfully. "You know, as war magic goes, it's not exactly traditional. On the other hand, tobacco is a big part of our magic."

"There you go." He did the trick on his jeans and lit a Winston. She took the cigarette from his lips, took a drag, and, starting from his legs, blew the smoke over his entire body. Then she kissed him and put the cigarette back in his mouth.

"Good as I can do." She hugged him fiercely and then abruptly released him and headed to the kitchen. Rick watched her go. He couldn't quite take the ceremony seriously, but he didn't think it was a joke, so he just turned and headed down the stairs.

There was a phone booth on the corner of K Street. He noted the phone number and walked on until he found a second pay phone in front of a drugstore. He saw that it was the old model, so he dropped in a nickel and immediately pounded the coin return button with the palm of his hand. The nickel slipped across the levers inside and registered as a dime. The emergency tone in the receiver switched to a regular dial tone – another nickel saved from the clutches of Ma Bell.

He called Dina's apartment, asked for Paul Robeson, and went through the minus-one, plus-one routine she'd laid out. He hung up and walked back up to the first phone booth just as it rang.

"Don't you think this is just a bit too James Bond?" he said.

"Absolutely not," Dina answered. "Remember, I know what a phone tap sounds like, and I've got a tap on my home phone now. It's kicking the hell out of my love life. Speaking of love lives, where is Eve? I just wanted you to meet her, not steal her away forever."

"I think it's more the other way around. She kidnapped me."

"Right. All you damn men are the same." Dina sighed dramatically. "Oh, well; in my heart, I knew she wasn't going to change and fall for me, so
mazel tov
to the two of you. Since you're a hopeless
goyim
, I'll also say ‘good luck'. OK, back to work."

They agreed that Dina would locate Corey and arrange to meet as soon as Rick recovered the papers and the film. Rick hung up, walked back to the rear of the building, and extricated the BMW from its niche behind the Dumpster. He kicked it over, letting it warm up while he buckled his helmet. It was a bit colder than the past several days, but still above freezing. Riding would only be painful, not dangerous.

He pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the Capitol, the dome almost invisible against a backdrop of cold gray clouds.

 

Parked on Eighth Street in the 240Z, Nguyen Vien and Tung Quan were watching the parade of gaily dressed men and women walk up and down the sidewalks. Vien was a mess, with his arm bandaged and splinted and his skin pale from the blood he'd lost in the explosion. Quan had a small bandage on the bullet wound in his shoulder, but otherwise he had recovered – at least physically.

Emotionally, his failure had blossomed into an almost uncontrollable rage fueled by the contempt he thought that the courier had shown by letting him live. He wanted the motorcyclist dead and, preferably, only after a long period of significant pain.

First, they had to find him. The last time they saw the courier was here on 8th Street, so they were going to sit here until they spotted him again. They smoked cigarettes and made crude comments about all the women passing by.

A block behind them, Mrs Jin was sitting in the front window of a Chinese restaurant watching them – and the rest of the street. The owner of the restaurant owed her money, so there had been no trouble getting the right seat, and no questions about why she was blocking their best table without ordering anything but a pot of tea.

At the moment, she was wondering if she should have kept the two Vietnamese men on the job. They had done badly – shamed her in front of the man she wanted most to impress. However, it was difficult to find good people in Washington. Certainly, there were many killers, but the young black men were bad about taking orders and terrible about keeping quiet afterward. No, it was better to give Vien and Quan a chance to redeem themselves.

She scanned the street again, watching the young men in leather and denim meet and mingle. She wondered how they could be so free right here in the nation's capital, especially when the White House had practically declared open war on men who loved men. Just last month, she had been paid to follow a newspaper reporter for days with orders to prove he was homosexual. She knew that the search was fruitless on the first evening when she saw how his wife and children greeted him. That didn't stop her from completing the job – political money was just as good as anyone else's, she thought.