“Do you see it?” he asked.
She took another sip of her tea and nodded, replying with a muted, “Mmm.”
He said nothing else, and she finished the cup in silence. She carried it back into the house and washed it along with the kettle she had used to prepare her morning oolong. She returned them to their places in the cupboard next to the stove, and the canister containing the tea leaves to the pantry.
Her husband remained in his chair, his eyes also fixed on the park bench, while he waited for his wife to return. When she did, he asked, “Shall we take a walk?”
The married couple walked from their front porch to the park across the busy street. The bench they had been watching was on the opposite side, hidden behind the thick bushes and trees lining the park’s boundary, and only visible because she trimmed them down. If they could not see the bench from their front porch, it would complicate things.
They walked in silence along the sidewalk, circling the block to enter the park from the far side. The cement walkway angled in from the street, and they passed between steel bollards designed to prevent vehicles from accessing through the gate. It was cooler still in the park. The low clouds overhead clung to the valley and soaked everything in a thin layer of dew, and they dodged low-hanging fir branches bordering the path.
It was a short walk to the bench from there. They didn’t hold hands or engage in idle conversation, surveying the park to look for something that wasn’t there. School was in session for a few more weeks, although most families with young children had long since moved from Willow Glen. It had been years since they had heard the laughter of playing children in the open space, but still they looked.
When they reached the bench, they sat together near the middle. He Gang removed the newspaper he had tucked under his arm and opened it wide. It was a local paper, printed in Mandarin, but he wasn’t interested in what it had to say and only pretended to read it as his eyes scanned across the top of the page.
“We’re clear,” he whispered.
Fu Zan reached under the bench and felt inside the cranny. She retrieved a small tube the size of a pack of gum and removed the lid to pull out a rolled scrap of paper. She handed it to her husband, replaced the lid, and returned the tube to the carved-out hollow in the bench’s frame.
As he unrolled the slip, he turned the newspaper’s page and looked for the correct key. His eyes danced between the scrap and the business section, completing a task that was all but second nature to him. As he did so, his wife swiped her hand along the edge of the bench near her right knee and wiped clean a thin chalk line that had not been there the day before.
“What does it say?” she asked.
Her husband rolled up the scrap of paper and slipped it into his pocket. When they returned to the house, he would set it on fire and watch it burn in an ashtray as he smoked a cigarette on their back porch. Then he would get into his car and go to work, doing his part to run the Silicon Valley rat race.
“It’s about Chen,” he replied.
Her heart jumped, but she made no outward reaction. She already knew the mission had failed and that Shanghai’s darling had gone missing. “What about her?”
Her husband placed his hand on top of hers in a rare sign of public affection. Fu Zan turned and looked up at him with expectant eyes.
“They want you to assign a replacement for one of her assets,” he said.
She furrowed her brow and asked, “Who?”
Her husband sighed, and he reached into his pocket for a cellophane-wrapped crumpled packet and the scrap of paper. He surprised her by drawing one of the unfiltered cigarettes and perching it between his lips with trembling fingers. Then he lifted a silver Zippo and sparked a flame, touched it to the tip, and took a long drag of the thick tobacco smoke while holding the scrap of paper over the flame. It flashed in an instant and incinerated to fluttering ash before he exhaled.
“Adam,” he said.
Fear gripped her heart, and she struggled not to react to the news. When their adopted foster son had surprised them by enlisting in the US Marine Corps, she had purposely kept it a secret from their superiors in Shanghai, knowing they would demand she turn him into a Ministry asset.
“How?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
He didn’t answer, but she hadn’t risen to her level within the Ministry’s operations directorate without the ability to piece together incomplete and unrelated morsels of information to create a cohesive picture. She knew she had failed to keep Adam’s enlistment a secret and suspected Chen had recruited him to use as leverage over her. But how had she discovered Mantis’s secret?
Racked with guilt, she reached across and placed her hand on top of his. “This is my fault,” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “It’s mine.”
Her husband turned to her with sad eyes and patted his hand on top of hers. Fu Zan turned and started to smile at him but stopped when she understood what he had meant. She had kept Adam a secret from the Ministry, but he had not. He lifted his hand, folded the newspaper and returned it to his breast pocket, and stood. She hesitated for only a moment, then joined him, and they walked back to their mid-century house in silence.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My dream of writing a novel has been a lifelong one, thanks to my parents, John and Laurie Stewart, who instilled in me a love for great stories and a thirst for adventure. To me, bookstores and libraries were portals to worlds of endless exploration, and I knew one day I would add my own books to their shelves. Thank you for always believing in me and encouraging me to chase my dreams, no matter how bold and unlikely.
But the bulk of the burden for the work that went into this has fallen on my family. I couldn’t have written this without the enduring support of my wife Sarah, and my three amazingly talented children, Tre, William, and Rebecca. Your belief in my dream of becoming a published author gave me the strength I needed to push through in those moments when nagging doubt set in. I love you all dearly.
Life in a fighter squadron can be a bit harsh, especially when you expose your deepest desires to a ready room designed to humble you at every opportunity. The same cannot be said for the men and women of Strike Fighter Squadron Two Zero Four, who encouraged me at every step in my writing journey. In particular, I would like to thank Billy Fraser, Layne Crowe, Luke Mixon, and Borya Celentano for their enduring support. The spirit of the River Rattlers and Naval Aviation flows through this novel.
To my extended military family who offered their critical eye to scenes in their areas of expertise, I can’t thank you enough. Any mistakes in this novel are mine alone, but where I nailed it, the credit is yours. To Pat Corrigan, Derek Heinz, Casey Kyle, Rob Lightfoot, Charlie Mauzé, and Ben Romero, thank you for ensuring I captured the heart and soul of our warrior culture.
One of the most amazing aspects of this journey has been forging new friendships with a group of extremely talented authors, who never fail to raise the bar or deliver on the promise that “a rising tide lifts all boats.” Ward Larsen, your early support gave me the confidence I needed to believe this was possible. Brian Andrews and Jeff Wilson, you were among the first to reach out and welcome me into the fold, and I am truly blessed to consider you both friends.