The Mercedes followed them all the way into town. Only when they pulled up in front of the hotel did the other car pass them. It headed around the corner, its occupants obscured behind dark glass.
Willy’s door was pulled open. Heat poured in, a knock-down, drag-out heat that left her stunned.
Miss Hu stood waiting outside, her face already pearled with sweat. “The hotel is air-conditioned,” she said and added, with a note of disdain, “for the comfort of foreigners.”
As it turned out, the so-called air-conditioning was scarcely functioning. In fact, the hotel itself seemed to be sputtering along on little more than its old French colonial glory. The entry rug was ratty and faded, the lobby furniture a sad mélange of battered rosewood and threadbare cushions. While Guy checked in at the reception desk, Willy stationed herself near their suitcases and kept watch over the lobby entrance.
She wasn’t surprised when, seconds later, two Vietnamese men, both wearing dark glasses, strolled through the door. They spotted her immediately and veered off toward an alcove, where they loitered behind a giant potted fern. She could see the smoke from their cigarettes curling toward the ceiling.
“We’re all checked in,” said Guy. “Room 308. View of the city.”
Willy touched his arm. “Two men,” she whispered. “Three o’clock...”
“I see them.”
“What do we do now?”
“Ignore them.”
“But—”
“Mr. Barnard?” called Miss Hu. They both turned. The woman was waving a slip of paper. “The desk clerk says there is a telegram for you.”
Guy frowned. “I wasn’t expecting any telegram.”
“It arrived this morning in Saigon, but you had just left. The hotel called here with the message.” She handed Guy the scribbled phone memo and watched with sharp eyes as he read it.
If the message was important, Guy didn’t show it. He casually stuffed it into his pocket and, picking up the suitcases, nudged Willy into a waiting elevator.
“Not bad news?” called Miss Hu.
Guy smiled at her. “Just a note from a friend,” he said, and punched the elevator button.
Willy caught a last glimpse of the two Vietnamese men peering at them from behind the fern, and then the door slid shut. Instantly, Guy gripped her hand. Don’t say a word, she read in his eyes.
It was a silent ride to the third floor.
Up in their room, Willy watched in puzzlement as Guy circled around, discreetly running his fingers under lampshades and along drawers, opened the closet, searched the nightstands. Behind the headboard, he finally found what he was seeking: a wireless microphone, barely the size of a postage stamp. He left it where it was. Then he went to the window and stared down at the street.
“How flattering,” he murmured. “We rate baby-sitting service.”
She moved beside him and saw what he was looking at: the black Mercedes, parked on the street below. “What about that telegram?” she whispered.
In answer, he pulled out the slip of paper and handed it to her. She read it twice, but it made no sense.
Uncle Sy asking about you. Plans guided tour of Nam. Happy Trails. Bobbo.
Guy let the curtain flap shut and began to pace furiously around the room. By the look of him, he was thinking up a blizzard, planning some scheme.
He suddenly halted. “Do you want something for your stomach?” he asked.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Pepto Bismol might help. And you’d better lie down for a while. That old intestinal bug can get pretty damn miserable.”
“Intestinal bug?” She gave him a helpless look.
He stalked to the desk and rummaged in a drawer for a piece of hotel stationery, talking all the while. “I’ll bet it’s that seafood you ate last night. Are you still feeling really lousy?” He held up a sheet of paper on which he’d scribbled, “Yes!!!”
“Yes,” she said. “Definitely lousy. I—I think I should lie down.” She paused. “Shouldn’t I?”
He was writing again. The sheet of paper now said, “You want to go to the hospital!”
She nodded and went into the bathroom, where she groaned loudly a few times and flushed the toilet. “You know, I feel really rotten. Maybe I should see a doctor....” It struck her then, as she stood by the sink and watched the water hiss out of the faucet, exactly what he was up to. The man’s a genius, she thought with sudden admiration. Turning to look at him, she said, “Do you think we’ll find anyone who speaks English?”
She was rewarded with a thumbs-up sign.
“We could try the hospital,” he said. “Maybe it won’t be a doctor, but they should have someone who’ll understand you.”
She went to the bed and sat down, bouncing a few times to make the springs squeak. “God, I feel awful.”
He sat beside her and placed his hand on her forehead. His eyes were twinkling as he said, “Lady, you’re really hot.”
“I know,” she said gravely.
They could barely hold back their laughter.
“She did not seem ill an hour ago,” Miss Hu said as she ushered them into the limousine ten minutes later.
“The cramps came on suddenly,” said Guy.
“I would say very suddenly,” Miss Hu noted aridly.
“I think it was the seafood,” Willy whimpered from the back seat.
“You Americans,” Miss Hu sniffed. “Such delicate stomachs.”
The hospital waiting room was hot as an oven and overflowing with patients. As Willy and Guy entered, a hush instantly fell over the crowd. The only sounds were the rhythmic clack of the ceiling fan and a baby crying in its mother’s lap. Every eye was watching as the two Americans moved through the room toward the reception desk.
The Vietnamese nurse behind the desk stared in mute astonishment. Only when Miss Hu barked out a question did the nurse respond with a nervous shake of the head and a hurried answer.
“We have only Vietnamese doctors here,” translated Miss Hu. “No Europeans.”
“You have no one trained in the West?” Guy asked.
“Why, do you feel your Western medicine is superior?”
“Look, I’m not here to argue East versus West. Just find someone who speaks English. A nurse’ll do. You have English-speaking nurses, don’t you?”
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 t
all, 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.”
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 m
ilitary 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.
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