Cameron, Marc - Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon

Clark closed his eyes for a quick moment, just long enough to take in the riot of odors and sounds—fish, black vinegar, and scooter exhaust. When the wind shifted just right, he could smell the Saigon River, mere blocks away.

Clark passed one order of crispy shrimp crepes to Lisanne—who’d snagged them a couple of seats at one of the half-dozen low plastic tables beside the food stall. It wobbled badly and looked like something the kids would be relegated to at Thanksgiving. Clark didn’t care. They’d been on their feet all morning and it was good to sit down.

Lisanne tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear, and leaned across the rickety plastic table toward Clark. She wore khaki shorts and, like Clark, a loose microfiber shirt with the long sleeves rolled up above her elbows. The deep olive complexion she’d inherited from her Lebanese mother helped her blend in a little better than Clark. Though, he had to admit, old men were invisible just about anywhere in the world. It was a fact he used to his advantage. Clark was still in better-than-average shape, jogging five miles every other day. He was admittedly not nearly as fast as he used to be. He’d kept up with his lifting, lower weight and higher reps. He could still bench his body weight, an ability he’d used as a sort of litmus test for his personal fitness. These days, he spent a good deal of time recovering between sets, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about his grandson—or whoever he happened to be training at the moment.

“Doesn’t this bug you?” Lisanne asked, her eyes darting from face to face in the crowd of passersby. “I’ve never thought of you as a person who’d like to turn his back on anyone.”

Clark smiled at that, resisting the urge to call his young acolyte Grasshopper.

“We’re predators,” he said, biting into one of the banh xeo . “Our eyes are set in the front of our heads, perfect for being a hunter. When we focus those eyes on someone in particular, we have to turn our back on someone else.”

“Still,” Lisanne said, scanning the crowd. “It creeps me out to have anyone get behind me.”

“I agree,” Clark said. “That’s a good quality for you to have in our line of work.” He nodded to the food. “Go ahead and eat. We won’t sit here long.”

“Glad to hear that,” she said. Supremely feminine, she still knew how to shovel down food.

After the Marines, Lisanne was working as a patrol officer in Virginia when she’d pulled Hendley over on a traffic stop. He’d been extremely impressed with the way she’d handled herself and he’d eventually recruited her to be their director of transportation. She was fluent in Arabic and could get by in Spanish and Mandarin. As DT, she often acted in the same capacity as a one-person Phoenix Raven detail, guarding the Hendley Associates G550 when it was on the ground at various airfields around the world. Clark rolled her into defensive tactics and other scenario-based training exercises with other Campus operatives almost as soon as she’d come aboard. She’d wowed the rest of the team with her fighting skill right from the get-go. More than anything, Clark was impressed with her ability to think under pressure. She was a better-than-average shot on the range, but began to really shine when the Sim rounds came zinging her way. She’d been downrange before and knew all too well what it was like to get shot at.

“Would it make you feel better if you had a gun?” Clark asked.

Lisanne looked up over half a bite of crepe and raised an eyebrow. She was used to him quizzing her all the time. Often calling him Socrates when he only answered her questions with more questions.

“I think it would,” she said. “A little. Though I guess I’d worry about someone bumping into it in a crowd like this and making a scene.”

Clark gave a contemplative nod. He wiped his hands on a handkerchief he took from the hip pocket of his khakis. Few food vendors wanted to cut into their bottom line by providing napkins for free.

“Tell me what you have on you right now,” he said.

“My everyday carry?” Lisanne grinned. “I always enjoy it when Ding has everyone pocket-dump their EDC on the plane.”

“Everyday carry …” Clark shook his head, scoffing a little. “I get a kick out of all the shit people call their everyday carry. A person in downtown Paducah might be able to get away with carrying two knives, a survival bracelet, multitool, tacticool flashlight, escape and evasion tools, and a SIG 365 with an extra magazine. Most of the time, we lose a bunch of those luxuries when we travel to other areas of the world, even in a private jet like we do. Your everyday Joe or Jill can run the most prepared setup imaginable in their hometown, surrounded by friendlies, but as soon as they get on a plane for Aruba, they can forget about a pistol. Carry one of those cool metal punch cards with a flat lock-picking set and you’re liable to get picked up as a spy in a good many countries. A pocketknife better look like a tool when you go overseas, or there’s a good chance you’ll get to know the inside of a Yourassisgrassistan prison.”

“Agreed,” Lisanne said, wiping her hands on the handkerchief she got from her own pocket.

Clark gave the white rectangle of cloth a nod. “ That is everyday carry.”

Lisanne grinned. “Something I can have with me when I’m overseas or in Paducah.”

“Exactly,” Clark said. “The stuff you carry every damned day, rain or shine, wherever you are … That’s a fairly sparse list. There is everyday carry, there’s most days carry, and then there’s mission carry. You and I will often accept the risks of carrying a concealed firearm in a foreign land because the danger of not having one outweighs the chance of arrest.”

Clark tapped the side of his head. “The things you put up here are a hell of a lot more important than what you have in your pocket. If you don’t remember anything else we talk about, remember this: You are the weapon. Anything you carry in your pocket or pick up from your surroundings—gun, knife, mop handle, or broken brick—is nothing more than a tool.”

Lisanne nodded, chewing on the counsel along with the last of her banh xeo . Her face remained impassive, but Clark picked up on a sudden change in her countenance, a subtle shift, as if she were about to stand.

“That guy you were watching,” she said without moving her head. “He’s back.”

Clark thought of complimenting her for noticing the same European he had, but decided the ultimate compliment would be to let her assume that he knew she’d been up to speed all along. In truth, it didn’t surprise him.

“His buddy on the motorcycle just dropped him off,” she said. “Directly behind you … Looks like he’s locked on to someone in the crowd …” Both hands on the table, she scanned, looking for the European’s target. “Got her. Local girl, maybe fifteen, at your seven o’clock.”

Clark was on his feet in an instant.

“They’re heading this way,” Lisanne said. Fifty feet out.

Clark turned, spotting the girl first. She moved quickly, not running, but clearly trying to make time. Apparently unaware that the European was closing in on her, she looked over her shoulder at every other step. She knew somebody was out there, hunting her. Her yellow T-shirt had seen better days. Sagging at the collar and torn in several places, it looked to have been used as a rag to wipe the girl’s grimy face as much as an article of clothing. Filthy denim shorts were cut high, revealing a map of faded bruises on her thighs. She wore heavy eye makeup, but no shoes. A band of pale skin stood out starkly from the otherwise olive complexion of her wrist, where she’d once worn a watch.