Never Say Die / Whistleblower

by Tess Gerritsen

  Scowling, Miss Hu turned and muttered to the desk nurse, who made a few phone calls. At last Willy was led down a corridor to a private examination room. It was stocked with only the basics: an examining table, a sink, an instrument cart. Cotton balls and tongue depressors were displayed in dusty glass jars. A fly buzzed lazily around the one bare lightbulb. The nurse handed Willy a tattered gown and gestured for her to undress.

  Willy had no intention of stripping while Miss Hu stood watch in the corner.

  “I would appreciate some privacy,” Willy said.

  The other woman didn’t move. “Mr. Barnard is staying,” she pointed out.

  “No.” Willy looked at Guy. “Mr. Barnard is leaving.”

  “In fact, I was just on my way out,” said Guy, turning toward the door. He added, for Miss Hu’s benefit, “You know, Comrade, in America it’s considered quite rude to watch while someone undresses.”

  “I was only trying to confirm what I’ve heard about Western women’s undergarments,” Miss Hu insisted as she and the nurse followed Guy out the door.

  “What, exactly, have you heard?” asked Guy.

  “That they are designed with the sole purpose of arousing prurient interest from the male sex.”

  “Comrade,” said Guy with a grin, “I would be delighted to share my knowledge on the topic of ladies’ undergarments….”

  The door closed, leaving Willy alone in the room. She changed into the gown and sat on the table to wait.

  Moments later, a tall, fortyish woman wearing a white lab coat walked in. The name tag on her lapel confirmed that she was Nora Walker. She gave Willy a brisk nod of greeting and paused beside the table to glance through the notes on the hospital clipboard. Strands of gray streaked her mane of brown hair; her eyes were a deep green, as unfathomable as the sea.

  “I’m told you’re American,” the woman said, her accent British. “We don’t see many Americans here. What seems to be the problem?”

  “My stomach’s been hurting. And I’ve been nauseated.”

  “How long now?”

  “A day.”

  “Any fever?”

  “No fever. But lots of cramping.”

  The woman nodded. “Not unusual for Western tourists.” She looked back down at the clipboard. “It’s the water. Different bacterial strains than you’re used to. It’ll take a few days to get over it. I’ll have to examine you. If you’ll just lie down, Miss—” She focused on the name written on the clipboard. Instantly she fell silent.

  “Maitland,” said Willy softly. “My name is Willy Maitland.”

  Nora cleared her throat. In a flat voice she said, “Please lie down.”

  Obediently, Willy settled back on the table and allowed the other woman to examine her abdomen. The hands probing her belly were cold as ice.

  “Sam Lassiter said you might help us,” Willy whispered.

  “You’ve spoken to Sam?”

  “In Cantho. I went to see him about my father.”

  Nora nodded and said, suddenly businesslike, “Does that hurt when I press?”

  “No.”

  “How about here?”

  “A little tender.”

  Now, once again in a whisper, Nora asked, “How is Sam doing these days?”

  Willy paused. “He’s dead,” she murmured.

  The hands resting on her stomach froze. “Dear God. How—” Nora caught herself, swallowed. “I mean, how…much does it hurt?”

  Willy traced her finger, knifelike, across her throat.

  Nora took a breath. “I see.” Her hands, still resting on Willy’s abdomen, were trembling. For a moment she stood silent, her head bowed. Then she turned and went to a medicine cabinet. “I think you need some antibiotics.” She took out a bottle of pills. “Are you allergic to sulfa?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Nora took out a blank medication label and began to fill in the instructions. “May I see proof of identification, Miss Maitland?”

  Willy produced a California driver’s license and handed it to Nora. “Is that sufficient?”

  “It will do.” Nora pocketed the license. Then she taped the medication label on the pill bottle. “Take one four times a day. You should notice some results by tomorrow night.” She handed the bottle to Willy. Inside were about two dozen white tablets. On the label was listed the drug name and a standard set of directions. No hidden messages, no secret instructions.

  Willy looked up expectantly, but Nora had already turned to leave. Halfway to the door, she paused. “There’s a man with you, an American. Who is he? A relative?”

  “A friend.”

  “I see.” Nora gave her a long and troubled look. “I trust you’re absolutely certain about your drug allergies, Miss Maitland. Because if you’re wrong, that medication could be very, very dangerous.” She opened the door to find Miss Hu standing right outside.

  The Vietnamese woman instantly straightened. “Miss Maitland is well?” she inquired.

  “She has a mild intestinal infection. I’ve given her some antibiotics. She should be feeling much better by tomorrow.”

  “I feel a little better already,” said Willy, climbing off the table. “If I could just have some fresh air…”

  “An excellent idea,” said Nora. “Fresh air. And only light meals. No milk.” She headed out the door. “Have a good stay in Hanoi, Miss Maitland.”

  Miss Hu turned a smug smile on Willy. “You see? Even here in Vietnam, one can find the best in medical care.”

  Willy nodded and reached for her clothes. “I quite agree.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Nora Walker left the hospital, climbed onto her bicycle and pedaled to the cloth merchants’ road. At a streetside noodle stand she bought a lemonade and a bowl of pho, for which she paid the vendor a thousand-dong note, carefully folded at opposite corners. She ate her noodles while squatted on the sidewalk, beside all the other customers. Then, after draining the last of the peppery broth, she strolled into a tailor’s shop. It appeared deserted. She slipped through a beaded curtain into a dimly lit back room. There, among the dusty bolts of silks and cottons and brocade, she waited.

  The rattle of the curtain beads announced the entrance of her contact. Nora turned to face him.

  “I’ve just seen Bill Maitland’s daughter,” she said in Vietnamese. She handed over Willy’s driver’s license.

  The man studied the photograph and smiled. “I see there is a family resemblance.”

  “There’s also a problem,” said Nora. “She’s traveling with a man—”

  “You mean Mr. Barnard?” There was another smile. “We’re well aware of him.”

  “Is he CIA?”

  “We think not. He is, to all appearances, an independent.”

  “So you’ve been tracking them.”

  The man shrugged. “Hardly difficult. With so many children on the streets, they’d scarcely notice a stray boy here and there.”

  Nora swallowed, afraid to ask the next question. “She said Sam’s dead. Is this true?”

  The man’s smile vanished. “We are sorry. Time, it seems, has not made things any safer.”

  Turning away, she tried to clear her throat, but the ache remained. She pressed her forehead against a bolt of comfortless silk. “You’re right. Nothing’s changed. Damn them. Damn them.”

  “What do you ask of us, Nora?”

  “I don’t know.” She took a ragged breath and turned to face him. “I suppose—I suppose we should send a message.”

  “I will contact Dr. Andersen.”

  “I need to have an answer by tomorrow.”

  The man shook his head. “That leaves us little time for arrangements.”

  “A whole day. Surely that’s enough.”

  “But there are…” He paused. “Complications.”

  Nora studied the man’s face, a perfect mask of impassivity. “What do you mean?”

  “The Party is now interested. And the CIA. Perhaps there are others.”

&
nbsp; Others, thought Nora. Meaning those they knew nothing about. The most dangerous faction of all.

  As Nora left the tailor shop and walked into the painful glare of afternoon, she sensed a dozen pairs of eyes watching her, marking her leisurely progress up Gia Ngu Street. The brightly embroidered blouse she’d just purchased in the shop made her feel painfully conspicuous. Not that she wasn’t already conspicuous. In Hanoi, all foreigners were watched with suspicion. In every shop she visited, along every street she walked, there were always those eyes.

  They would be watching Willy Maitland, as well.

  “We’ve made the first move,” Guy said. “The next move is hers.”

  “And if we don’t hear anything?”

  “Then I’m afraid we’ve hit a dead end.” Guy thrust his hands into his pockets and turned his gaze across the waters of Returned Sword Lake. Like a dozen other couples strolling the grassy banks, they’d sought this park for its solitude, for the chance to talk without being heard. Flame red blossoms drifted down from the trees. On the footpath ahead, children chattered over a game of ball and jacks.

  “You never explained that telegram,” she said. “Who’s Bobbo?”

  He laughed. “Oh, that’s a nickname for Toby Wolff. After that plane crash, we wound up side by side in a military hospital. I guess we gave the nurses a lot of grief. You know, a few too many winks, too many sly comments. They got to calling us the evil Bobbsey twins. Pretty soon he was Bobbo One and I was Bobbo Two.”

  “Then Toby Wolff sent the telegram.”

  He nodded.

  “And what does it mean? Who’s Uncle Sy?”

  Guy paused and gave their surroundings a thoughtful perusal. She knew it was more than just a casual look; he was searching. And sure enough, there they were: two Vietnamese men, stationed in the shadow of a poinciana tree. Police agents, most likely, assigned to protect them.

  Or was it to isolate them?

  “Uncle Sy,” Guy said, “was our private name for the CIA.”

  She frowned, recalling the message. Uncle Sy asking about you. Plans guided tour of Nam. Happy trails. Bobbo.

  “It was a warning,” Guy said. “The Company knows about us. And they’re in the country. Maybe watching us this very minute.”

  She glanced apprehensively around the lake. A bicycle glided past, pedaled by a serene girl in a conical hat. On the grass, two lovers huddled together, whispering secrets. It struck Willy as too perfect, this view of silver lake and flowering trees, an artist’s fantasy for a picture postcard.

  All except for the two police agents watching from the trees.

  “If he’s right,” she said, “if the CIA’s after us, how are we going to recognize them?”

  “That’s the problem.” Guy turned to her, and the uneasiness she saw in his eyes frightened her. “We won’t.”

  So close. Yet so unreachable.

  Siang squatted in the shadow of a pedicab and watched the two Americans stroll along the opposite bank of the lake. They took their time, stopping like tourists to admire the flowers, to laugh at a child toddling in the path, both of them oblivious to how easily they could be captured in a rifle’s crosshairs, their lives instantly extinguished.

  He turned his attention to the two men trailing a short distance behind. Police agents, he assumed, on protective surveillance. They made things more difficult, but Siang could work around them. Sooner or later, an opportunity would arise.

  Assassination would be so easy, as simple as a curtain left open to a well-aimed bullet. What a pity that was no longer the plan.

  The Americans returned to their car. Siang rose, stamped the blood back into his legs and climbed onto his bicycle. It was a beggarly form of transportation, but it was practical and inconspicuous. Who would notice, among the thousands crowding the streets of Hanoi, one more shabbily dressed cyclist?

  Siang followed the car back to the hotel. One block farther, he dismounted and discreetly observed the two Americans enter the lobby. Seconds later, a black Mercedes pulled up. The two agents climbed out and followed the Americans into the hotel.

  It was time to set up shop.

  Siang took a cloth-wrapped bundle from his bicycle basket, chose a shady spot on the sidewalk and spread out a meager collection of wares: cigarettes, soap and greeting cards. Then, like all the other itinerant merchants lining the road, he squatted down on his straw mat and beckoned to passersby.

  Over the next two hours he managed to sell only a single bar of soap, but it scarcely mattered. He was there simply to watch. And to wait.

  Like any good hunter, Siang knew how to wait.

  Chapter Ten

  Guy and Willy slept in separate beds that night. At least, Guy slept. Willy lay awake, tossing on the sheets, thinking about her father, about the last time she had seen him alive.

  He had been packing. She’d stood beside the bed, watching him toss clothes into a suitcase. She knew by the items he’d packed that he was returning to the lovely insanity of war. She saw the flak jacket, the Laotian-English dictionary, the heavy gold chains—a handy form of ransom with which a downed pilot could bargain for his life. There was also the Government-issue blood chit, printed on cloth and swiped from a U.S. Air Force pilot.

  I am a citizen of the United States of America. I do not speak your language. Misfortune forces me to seek your assistance in obtaining food, shelter and protection. Please take me to someone who will provide for my safety and see that I am returned to my people.

  It was written in thirteen languages.

  The last item he packed was his .45, the trigger seat filed to a feather release. Willy had stood by the bed and stared at the gun, struck in that instant by its terrible significance.

  “Why are you going back?” she’d asked.

  “Because it’s my job, baby,” he’d said, slipping the pistol in among his clothes. “Because I’m good at it, and because we need the paycheck.”

  “We don’t need the paycheck. We need you.”

  He closed the suitcase. “Your mom’s been talking to you again, has she?”

  “No, this is me talking, Daddy. Me.”

  “Sure, baby.” He laughed and mussed her hair, his old way of making her feel like his little girl. He set the suitcase down on the floor and grinned at her, the same grin he always used on her mother, the same grin that always got him what he wanted. “Tell you what. How ’bout I bring back a little surprise? Something nice from Vientiane. Maybe a ruby? Or a sapphire? Bet you’d love a sapphire.”

  She shrugged. “Why bother?”

  “What do you mean, ‘why bother’? You’re my baby, aren’t you?”

  “Your baby?” She looked at the ceiling and laughed. “When was I ever your baby?”

  His grin vanished. “I don’t care for your tone of voice, young lady.”

  “You don’t care about anything, do you? Except flying your stupid planes in your stupid war.” Before he could answer, she’d pushed past him and left the room.

  As she fled down the hall she heard him yell, “You’re just a kid. One of these days you’ll understand! Grow up a little! Then you’ll understand….”

  One of these days. One of these days.

  “I still don’t understand,” she whispered to the night.

  From the street below came the whine of a passing car. She sat up in bed and, running a hand through her damp hair, gazed around the room. The curtains fluttered like gossamer in the moonlit window. In the next bed, Guy lay asleep, the covers kicked aside, his bare back gleaming in the darkness.

  She rose and went to the window. On the corner below, three pedicab drivers, dressed in rags, squatted together in the dim glow of a street lamp. They didn’t say a word; they simply huddled there in a midnight tableau of weariness. She wondered how many others, just as weary, just as silent, wandered in the night.

  And to think they won the war.

  A groan and the creak of bedsprings made her turn. Guy was lying on his back now, the covers kicked to the
floor. By some strange fascination, she was drawn to his side. She stood in the shadows, studying his rumpled hair, the rise and fall of his chest. Even in his sleep he wore a half smile, as though some private joke were echoing in his dreams. She started to smooth back his hair, then thought better of it. Her hand lingered over him as she struggled against the longing to touch him, to be held by him. It had been so long since she’d felt this way about a man, and it frightened her; it was the first sign of surrender, of the offering up of her soul.

  She couldn’t let it happen. Not with this man.

  She turned and went back to her own bed and threw herself onto the sheets. There she lay, thinking of all the ways he was wrong for her, all the ways they were wrong for each other.

  The way her mother and father had been wrong for each other.

  It was something Ann Maitland had never recognized, that basic incompatibility. It had been painfully obvious to her daughter. Bill Maitland was the wild card, the unpredictable joker in life’s game of chance. Ann cheerfully accepted whatever surprises she was dealt because he was her husband, because she loved him.

  But Willy didn’t need that kind of love. She didn’t need a younger version of Wild Bill Maitland.

  Though, God knew, she wanted him. And he was right in the next bed.

  She closed her eyes. Restless, sweating, she counted the hours until morning.

  “A most curious turn of events.” Minister Tranh, recently off the plane from Saigon, settled into his hard-backed chair and gazed at the tea leaves drifting in his cup. “You say they are behaving like mere tourists?”

  “Typical capitalist tourists,” said Miss Hu in disgust. She opened her notebook, in which she’d dutifully recorded every detail, and began her report. “This morning at nine-forty-five, they visited the tomb of our beloved leader but offered no comment. At 12:17, they were served lunch at the hotel, a menu which included fried fish, stewed river turtle, steamed vegetables and custard. This afternoon, they were escorted to the Museum of War, then the Museum of Revolution—”