A Time for War Read Online Free PDF Page A

The Ironworkers’ Noontime , by Thomas Anshutz. It was an oil painting of nineteenth-century workers at a foundry. Though the men were on break, none of them were resting. Most of their lean musculature was still in motion, mid-action. The ones whose bodies were still, it was clear their minds were driving forward. They were all ready to get going and continue fulfilling their fierce mission—to build this nation.
    â€œBreak’s over,” Jack said to himself.
    He was sure Max was right, that no one but her would have picked up on his slight distance from his work. But he knew. Now he was ready to reengage. His hand was tight around the torch.
    His cell phone rang from his jacket pocket. His ringtone was “The Soldier’s Song,” the Irish national anthem. It reminded him that he wasn’t the only one picked on by the British. He checked the caller ID and the screen said it was Johnny Yu. Jack had a reporter’s instinct and it wasn’t like Johnny to phone and talk about the price of green tea. He took the call and walked toward a hallway where his voice wouldn’t bother the other museum guests.
    â€œJohnny, how have you been?”
    â€œI’ve been well.” Johnny’s English was perfect. When Johnny and his wife moved here from Shanghai they took language classes at the City College of San Francisco. They were among those immigrants who believed in embracing the language and ways of their new country. They were part of a culture that believed in real, practical knowledge—not just a document that declared you had been educated.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” Jack asked.
    â€œMay I come and see you?”
    â€œI was about to—”
    â€œSomeone threatened my daughter,” he said.
    There was a crack in his steady voice. This was a man who had snuck up on drug dealers with an open cell phone line so he could send the conversation to Jack’s tape recorder. It wasn’t easy to shake him.
    â€œIs Maggie all right?” Jack asked.
    â€œShe stared one of them down; he ran away and left.”
    Jack had gone to Maggie’s black belt test when she was thirteen. He had been doing a report on highly disciplined youths of San Francisco, including members of Maggie’s martial arts school. After the test he had interviewed Maggie and her father for the article. A year later they had called him asking for help.
    â€œWas it the Long Zai?” Jack asked Johnny now. The Long Zai was one of the most organized and ruthless gangs in Chinatown, and they were the reason Johnny had needed help twelve years ago.
    â€œI don’t think so,” Johnny said, “but the threat was not random. The men who came to the grocery wanted to see me. Maggie thinks she knows why. I’d like to tell you face-to-face.”
    Jack’s reporter instinct was still humming. “Did you file a report with the police?”
    â€œShe’s doing that now.”
    â€œDid she recognize any of them?”
    â€œNo,” Johnny said. “And she didn’t get a good look at the car. The police told me they will try to identify the man from the store surveillance camera.”
    â€œI’ll tell you what,” Jack said. “How about I swing by around two o’clock?”
    â€œI would really appreciate that,” Johnny said.
    â€œSee you then,” Jack said. “And tell Maggie ‘well done.’”
    Johnny said he would do that. Jack ended the call.
    It seemed that he had picked up the torch just in time.
    *   *   *
    The Consulate General of the People’s Republic of China in San Francisco is a set of featureless, three-story white buildings located at 1450 Laguna Street. A pair of fierce, squat, stone lions guard the stately six-panel chocolate-brown doors. These thick-maned guardians, known as Shishi, have traditionally stood in front of royal and governmental buildings for over two millennia. They