Neal Stephenson - Reamde

“See you,” she said.

“See you.”

She slammed the tailgate, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, and walked to the bus stop. Sokolov put the car in gear, got the SUV turned around, and headed back up the way they had come, keeping an eye peeled for trailheads.

GIVEN THE REMARKABLE length and diversity of Csongor, Marlon, and Yuxia’s enemies list, the five-block stroll from the hotel to the U.S. embassy was one of the more stimulating experiences of Seamus’s recent life. Not because anything actually happened—he’d have known how to behave, in that case—but because he had no way of telling whether any of the people who passed them on the sidewalk or cruised past them in cars, jeepneys, and motor scooters were gun-toting assassins bent on retribution. He reckoned he could have covered the distance in about half the time if he had simply slung Yuxia over his back in a fireman’s carry and hoofed it with the long-legged Csongor and Marlon keeping pace. Not a one of them was under six feet two, and they all seemed to get the idea that hanging around in the open was not the preferred strategy. Yuxia was a different matter, not because she was tiny (she could move as fast as any of them when she had a mind to) but because she insisted on viewing this as a fascinating exploratory junket into a new and unfamiliar world, and an opportunity to establish cross-cultural relations with as many as possible of the hundreds of people she encountered on the street. Most of these conversations were gratifyingly brief, possibly because Yuxia’s interlocutors kept stealing uneasy glances at Csongor and Seamus, who tended to bracket the girl and stand with their backs to each other and their hands in their pockets scanning the vicinity with disconcerting alertness. Meanwhile Marlon did his bit by chivvying her along, muttering to her in Mandarin, as though playing the role of a nervous, irritable boyfriend.

The embassy was huge, a city within the city, and given the number of active Islamic terrorist cells in the Philippines, it was not the sort of place you could just stroll into. Seamus came here frequently enough that most of the marine guards recognized him. But his three companions would have to ID themselves and pass through metal detectors like anyone else. Seamus managed to squeeze the whole party into a gatehouse where they could stand and wait in air-conditioned comfort until the duty officer arrived, which took all of about thirty seconds. Seamus was then able to explain the unusual nature of his visitors and his errand. Csongor was briskly but politely disarmed, and everyone was metal detected and frisked. Seamus was then allowed to lead his guests out into the embassy grounds, which sprawled for many acres across reclaimed land along the shore of Manila Bay. Both Americans and Japanese had, at various times, controlled the Philippines, and run major wars, out of this compound. There was an older chancery in the middle, hemmed in from both sides by more recent buildings that housed the embassy’s thousands of American and Filipino employees. A great deal of space was given over to all things having to do with visas. Seamus hoped that he could get Marlon and Yuxia in to see some of those people today.

First, though, he had to get them interested in visiting the United States. Seamus was enough of a naked chauvinist to assume that any non-American in his or her right mind would want to come to America. But he had not spent half of his adult life in strange parts of the world without picking up a few diplomatic skills. He strolled into the shade of a large tree in front of the chancery and convened the others in a little circle around him.

“I’m going to America,” he said, “as soon as I can get on a plane. I’m going there because I think that our friend Abdallah Jones is there and that Zula might be with him, as a hostage. Csongor is coming with me; he can get permission to enter the U.S. by filling out a web form, so it’s easy for him. You guys, Marlon and Yuxia, are free to do whatever you want. But I feel I should point out that you are in this country illegally. Chinese citizens need a visa to enter the Philippines, and I’m going to take a wild guess that you didn’t get visas before you stole that fishing boat from the terrorists and blew away the skipper. I don’t recommend that you just go back to China. You really need to get to some country that is not China and where you have some sort of paperwork so you can’t be arrested and deported back to China on sight—which is what would happen if you went out there”—he waved his arm vaguely at the traffic on Roxas Boulevard—“and got noticed.” He aimed this last comment at Yuxia, who had spent the last half hour doing everything she conceivably could to get herself noticed. She took the meaning and got a slightly pouty look about her, which was quite unlike Yuxia, and nearly killed Seamus.

Marlon and Yuxia were watching Seamus carefully now. They might, or might not, find the idea of a trip to the United States appealing on its own merits. But he’d gotten their attention by mentioning Jones and Zula, and then scared the hell out of them by elucidating their dilemma regarding paperwork.

“Now, I believe that I might be able to arrange something.”

Rapt silence.

“I’m going to assume that neither one of you has a Chinese passport.”

Marlon shook his head.

“We only get them when we are going to travel outside of China,” Yuxia said, “and I have never done so.”

“Actually you have,” Seamus pointed out, throwing his hands out to direct her attention to the fact that she was in Manila. She smiled. “Anyway, not having a passport will certainly throw a monkey wrench into the process of getting a visa to enter the United States.” He was trying to employ dry understatement here and wasn’t entirely certain that they were fully appreciative of his sense of humor. “But I know some people here in the embassy who can make it all right in no time.”

“ARE YOU OUT of your fucking mind?” the CIA station chief was asking him a few minutes later.

Marlon and Yuxia and Csongor were cooling their heels in a café in a relatively nonsecure part of the embassy. Seamus and the station chief, an American of Filipino ancestry named Ferdinand (“Call me Freddie”), were conversing in a part of the building that was very secure indeed. They had known each other for a while.

“Freddie, you know that this room is so secret, so well shielded, that I could strangle you here and no one would ever know.”

“No one except for the two marines with submachine guns right outside the door.”

“Drinking buddies of mine.”

“Seriously, Seamus, what are you asking me to do? Produce forged Chinese passports?”

“Real American ones would be a hell of a lot easier.”

Freddie actually considered this. “I suppose we could claim that they were American citizens, visiting Manila, whose passports were stolen by pickpockets. That farce would be uncovered the moment the State Department actually bothered to check the records.”

“Freddie. Work with me here. The global war on terror leads us into many strange situations. We do stuff all the time that’s not technically legal. Hell, my very presence in this country is a violation of Philippine sovereignty. As is yours.”

“So you want to play the GWOT card?”

“Yes. Come on, Freddie. That’s the whole point of this conversation.”

Freddie gave him an I’m waiting look. In retrospect, Seamus should have seen this as the trap that it was.

“I know where Jones is,” Seamus said. “I can narrow it down to maybe ten square miles. Or kilometers, for our Canadian friends.”

“Would this be related to the work you have been doing with”—and here Freddie picked up a folder marked as containing secret information—“that British girl? Olivia Halifax-Lin?”