Guy shook his head in sympathy. “A woman has a right to change her mind.”
“One day after I left the country?”
There wasn’t much a man could say to that. But Guy couldn’t blame the woman. He knew how it was in Saigon—the fear, the uncertainty. No one knowing if there’d be a slaughter and everyone expecting the worst. He’d seen the news photos of the city’s fall, recognized the look of desperation on the faces of the Vietnamese scrambling aboard the last choppers out. No, he couldn’t blame a woman for wanting to get out of the country, any way she could.
“You could still write about it,” Guy pointed out. “Try a different angle. How one woman escaped the madness. The price of survival.”
“My heart’s not in it any longer.” Hamilton gazed sadly around the rooftop. “Or in this town. I used to love it here! The noise, the smells. Even the whomp of the mortar rounds. But Saigon’s changed. The spirit’s flown out of it. The funny part is, this hotel looks exactly the same. I used to stand at this very bar and hear your generals whisper to each other, ‘What the hell are we doing here?’ I don’t think they ever quite figured it out.” He laughed and took another gulp of Scotch. “Memphis. Why would she want to go to Memphis?”
He was muttering to himself now, some private monologue about women causing all the world’s miseries. An opinion with which Guy could almost agree. All he had to do was think about his own miserable love life and he, too, would get the sudden, blinding urge to get thoroughly soused.
Women. All the same. Yet, somehow, all different.
He thought about Willy Maitland. She talked tough, but he could tell it was an act, that there was something soft, something vulnerable beneath that hard-as-nails surface. Hell, she was just a kid trying to live up to her old man’s name, pretending she didn’t need a man when she did. He had to admire her for that: her pride.
She was smart to turn down his offer. He wasn’t sure he had the stomach to go through with it anyway. Let the Ariel Group tighten his noose. He’d lived with his skeletons long enough; maybe it was time to let them out of the closet.
I should just do my job, he thought. Go to Hanoi, pick up a few dead soldiers, fly them home.
And forget about Willy Maitland.
Then again...
He ordered another beer. Drank it while the debate raged on in his head. Thought about all the ways he could help her, about how much she needed someone’s help. Considered doing it not because he was being forced into it, but because he wanted to. Out of the goodness of my heart? Now that was a new concept. No, he’d never been a Boy Scout. Something about those uniforms, about all that earnest goodliness and godliness, had struck him as faintly ridiculous. But here he was, Boy Scout Barnard, ready to offer his services, no strings attached.
Well, maybe a few strings. He couldn’t help fantasizing about the possibilities. He thought of how it would be, taking her up to his room. Undressing her. Feeling her yield beneath him. He swallowed hard and reached automatically for the Heineken.
“No doubt about it,” Hamilton muttered. “I tell you, it’s all their fault.”
“Hmm?” Guy turned. “Whose fault?”
“Women, of course. They cause more trouble than they’re worth.”
“You said it, pal.” Guy sighed and lifted the beer to his lips. “You said it.”
* * *
Men. They cause more trouble than they’re worth, Willy thought as she viciously wound her alarm clock.
A bounty hunter. She should have guessed. Warning bells should have gone off in her head the minute he so generously offered his help. Help. What a laugh. She thought of all the solicitation letters she and her mother had received, all the mercenary groups who’d offered, for a few thousand dollars, to provide just such worthless help. There’d been the MIA Search Fund, the Men Alive Committee, Operation Chestnut—Let’s Pull ’em Out Of The Fire! had been their revolting slogan. How many grieving families had invested their hopes and savings on such futile dreams?
She stripped down to a tank top and flopped onto the bed. A decent night’s sleep, she could tell, was another futile dream. The mattress was lumpy, and the pillow seemed to be stuffed with concrete. Not that it mattered. How could she get any rest with that damned disco music vibrating through the walls? At 8:00 the first driving drumbeats had announced the opening of Dance Night at the Rex Hotel. Lord, she thought, what good is communism if it can’t even stamp out disco?
It occurred to her that, at that very minute, Guy Barnard was probably loitering downstairs in that dance hall, checking out the action. Sometimes she thought that was the real reason men started wars—it was an excuse to run away from home and check out the action.
What do I care if he’s down there eyeing the ladies? The man’s scum. He’s not worth a second thought.
Still, she had to admit he had a certain tattered charm. Nice straight teeth and a dazzling smile and eyes that were brown as a wolf’s. A woman could get in trouble for the sake of those eyes. And heaven knows, I don’t need that kind of trouble.
Someone knocked on the door. She sat up straight and called out, “Who is it?”
“Room service.”
“There must be a mistake. I didn’t order anything.”
There was no response. Sighing, she pulled on a robe and padded over to open the door.
Guy grinned at her from the darkness. “Well?” he inquired. “Have you thought about it?”
“Thought about what?” she snapped back.
“You and me. Working together.”
She laughed in disbelief. “Either you’re hard of hearing or I didn’t make myself clear.”
“That was two hours ago. I figured you might have changed your mind.”
“I will never change my mind. Good night.” She slammed the door, shoved the bolt home and stepped back, seething.
There was a tapping on her window. She yanked the curtain aside and saw Guy smiling through the glass.
“Just one more question,” he called.
“What?”
“Is that answer final?”
She jerked the curtain closed and stood there, waiting to see where he’d turn up next. Would he drop down from the ceiling? Pop up like a jack-in-the-box through the floor?
What was that rustling sound?
Glancing down sharply, she saw a piece of paper slide under the door. She snatched it up and read the scrawled message. “Call me if you need me.”
Ha! she thought, ripping the note to pieces. “The day I need you is the day hell freezes over!” she yelled.
There was no answer. And she knew, without even looking, that he had already walked away.
* * *
Chantel gazed at the bottle of champagne, the tins of caviar and foie gras, and the box of chocolates, and she licked her lips. Then she said, “How dare you show up after all these years.”
Siang merely smiled. “You have lost your taste for champagne? What a pity. It seems I shall have to drink it all myself.” He reached for the bottle. Slowly, he untwisted the wire. The flight from Bangkok had jostled the contents; the cork shot out, spilling pale gold bubbles all over the earthen floor. Chantal gave a little sob. She appeared ready to drop to her knees and lap up the precious liquid. He poured champagne into one of two fluted glasses he’d brought all the way from Bangkok. One could not, after all, drink champagne from a teacup. He took a sip and sighed happily. “Taittinger. Delightful.”
“Taittinger?” she whispered.
He filled the second glass and set it on the rickety table in front of her. She kept staring at it, watching the bubbles spiral to the surface.
“I need help,” he said.
She reached for the glass, put it to her trembling lips, tasted the rim, then the contents. He could almost see the bubbles sliding over her tongue, slipping down that fine, long throat. Even if t
he rest of her was sagging, she still had that beautiful throat, slender as a stalk of grass. A legacy from her Vietnamese mother. Her Asian half had held up over the years; the French half hadn’t done so well. He could see the freckles, the fine lines tracing the corners of her greenish eyes.
She was no longer merely tasting the champagne; she was guzzling. Greedily, she drained the last drop from her glass and reached for the bottle.
He slid it out of her reach. “I said I need your help.”
She wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “What kind of help?”
“Not much.”
“Ha. That’s what you always say.”
“A pistol. Automatic. Plus several clips of ammunition.”
“What if I don’t have a pistol?”
“Then you will find me one.”
She shook her head. “This is not the old days. You don’t know what it’s like here. Things are difficult.” She paused, looking down at her slightly crepey hands. “Saigon is a hell.”
“Even hell can be made comfortable. I can see to that.”
She was silent. He could read her mind almost as easily as if her eyes were transparent. She gazed down at the treasures he’d brought from Bangkok. She swallowed, her mouth still tingling with the taste of champagne. At last she said, “The gun. What do you want it for?”
“A job.”
“Vietnamese?”
“American. A woman.”
A spark flickered in Chantal’s eyes. Curiosity. Maybe jealousy. Her chin came up. “Your lover?”
He shook his head.
“Then why do you want her dead?”
He shrugged. “Business. My client has offered generous compensation. I will split it with you.”
“The way you did before?” she shot back.
He shook his head apologetically. “Chantal, Chantal.” He sighed. “You know I had no choice. It was the last flight out of Saigon.” He touched her face; it had lost its former silkiness. That French blood again: it didn’t hold up well under years of harsh sunlight. “This time, I promise. You’ll be paid.”
She sat there looking at him, looking at the champagne. “What if it takes me time to find a gun?”
“Then I’ll improvise. And I will need an assistant. Someone I can trust, someone discreet.” He paused. “Your cousin, is he still in need of money?”
Their gazes met. He gave her a slow, significant smile. Then he filled her glass with champagne.
“Open the caviar,” she said.
* * *
“I need your help,” said Willy.
Guy, dazed and still half-asleep, stood in his doorway, blinking at the morning sunlight. He was uncombed, unshaven and wearing only a towel—a skimpy one at that. She tried to stay focused on his face, but her gaze kept dropping to his chest, to that mat of curly brown hair, to the scar knotting the upper abdomen.
He shook his head in disbelief. “You couldn’t have told me this last night? You had to wait till the crack of dawn?”
“Guy, it’s eight o’clock.”
He yawned. “No kidding.”
“Maybe you should try going to bed at a decent hour.”
“Who says I didn’t?” He leaned carelessly in the doorway and grinned. “Maybe sleep didn’t happen to be on my agenda.”
Dear God. Did he have a woman in his room? Automatically, Willy glanced past him into the darkened room. The bed was rumpled but unoccupied.
“Gotcha,” he said, and laughed.
“I can see you’re not going to be any help at all.” She turned and walked away.
“Willy! Hey, come on.” He caught her by the arm and pulled her around. “Did you mean it? About wanting my help?”
“Forget it. It was a lapse in judgment.”
“Last night, hell had to freeze over before you’d come to me for help. But here you are. What made you change your mind?”
She didn’t answer right off. She was too busy trying not to notice that his towel was slipping. To her relief, he snatched it together just in time and fastened it more securely around his hips.
At last she shook her head and sighed. “You were right. It’s all going exactly as you said it would. No official will talk to me. No one’ll answer my calls. They hear I’m coming and they all dive under their desks!”
“You could try a little patience. Wait another week.”
“Next week’s no good, either.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t you heard? It’s Ho Chi Minh’s birthday.”
Guy looked heavenward. “How could I forget?”
“So what should I do?”
For a moment, he stood there thoughtfully rubbing his unshaven chin. Then he nodded. “Let’s talk about it.”
Back in his room, she sat uneasily on the edge of the bed while he dressed in the bathroom. The man was a restless sleeper, judging by the rumpled sheets. The blanket had been kicked off the bed entirely, the pillows punched into formless lumps by the headboard. Her gaze settled on the nightstand, where a stack of files lay. The top one was labeled Operation Friar Tuck. Declassified. Curious, she flipped open the cover.
“It’s the way things work in this country,” she heard him say through the bathroom door. “If you want to get from point A to point B, you don’t go in a straight line. You walk two steps to the left, two to the right, turn and walk backward.”
“So what should I do now?”
“The two-step. Sideways.” He came out, dressed and freshly shaved. Spotting the open file on the nightstand, he calmly closed the cover. “Sorry. Not for public view,” he said, sliding the stack of folders into his briefcase. Then he turned to her. “Now. Tell me what else is going on.”
“What do you mean?”
“I get the feeling there’s something more. It’s eight o’clock in the morning. You can’t have battled the bureaucracy this early. What really made you change your mind about me?”
“Oh, I haven’t changed my mind about you. You’re still a mercenary.” Her disgust seemed to hang in the air like a bad odor.
“But now you’re willing to work with me. Why?”
She looked down at her lap and sighed. Reluctantly she opened her purse and pulled out a slip of paper. “I found this under my door this morning.”
He unfolded the paper. In a spidery hand was written “Die Yankee.” Just seeing those two words again made her angry. A few minutes ago, when she’d shown the message to Mr. Ainh, his only reaction was to shake his head in regret. At least Guy was an American; surely he’d share her sense of outrage.
He handed the note back to her. “So?”
“‘So?’” She stared at him. “I get a death threat slipped under my door. The entire Vietnamese government hides at the mention of my name. Ainh practically commands me to tour his stupid lacquer factory. And that’s all you can say? ‘So?’”
Clucking sympathetically, he sat down beside her. Why does he have to sit so close? she thought. She tried to ignore the tingling in her leg as it brushed against his, struggled to sit perfectly straight though his weight on the mattress was making her sag toward him.
“First of all,” he explained, “this isn’t necessarily a personal death threat. It could be merely a political statement.”
“Oh, is that all,” she said blandly.
“And think of the lacquer factory as a visit to the dentist. You don’t want to go, but everyone thinks you should. And as for the elusive Foreign Ministry, you wouldn’t learn a thing from those bureaucrats anyway. Speaking of bureaucrats, where’s your babysitter?”
“You mean Mr. Ainh?” She sighed. “Waiting for me in the lobby.”
“You have to get rid of him.”
“I wish.”
“We can’t have him around.” Rising, Guy took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Not wh
ere we’re going.”
“Where are we going?” she demanded, following him out the door.
“To see a friend. I think.”
“Meaning he might not see us?”
“Meaning I can’t be sure he’s a friend.”
She groaned as they stepped into the elevator. “Terrific.”
Down in the lobby, they found Ainh by the desk, waiting to ambush her. “Miss Maitland!” he called. “Please, you must hurry. We have a very busy schedule today.”
Willy glanced at Guy, who simply shrugged and looked off in another direction. Drat the man, he was leaving it up to her. “Mr. Ainh,” she said, “about this little tour of the lacquer factory—”
“It will be quite fascinating! But they do not take dollars, so if you wish to exchange for dong, I can—”
“I’m afraid I don’t feel up to it,” she said flatly.
Ainh blinked in surprise. “You are ill?”
“Yes, I...” She suddenly noticed that Guy was shaking his head. “Uh, no, I’m not. I mean—”
“What she means,” said Guy, “is that I offered to show her around. You know—” he winked at Ainh “—a little personal tour.”
“P-personal?” Flushing, Ainh glanced at Willy. “But what about my tour? It is all arranged! The car, the sightseeing, a special lunch—”
“I tell you what, pal,” said Guy, bending toward him conspiratorially. “Why don’t you take the tour?”
“I have been on the tour,” Ainh said glumly.
“Ah, but that was work, right? This time, why don’t you take the day off, both you and the driver. Go see the sights of Saigon. And enjoy Ms. Maitland’s lunch. After all, it’s been paid for.”
Ainh suddenly looked interested. “A free lunch?”
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