Authors: Tess Gerritsen
Guy watched her storm away, her chambray skirt snapping smartly about those fabulous legs. Annoyed as he was, he couldn't help laughing when he heard that comeback to the Russian.
Go to hellski.
He laughed harder. He was still laughing as he wandered over to the bar and called for another Heineken. The beer was so cold, it made his teeth ache.
"For a fellow who's just gotten the royal heave-ho," said a voice, obviously British, "you seem to be in high spirits."
Guy glanced at the portly gentleman hunched next to him at the bar. With those two tufts of hair on his bald head, he looked like a horned owl. China blue eyes twinkled beneath shaggy eyebrows.
Guy shrugged. "Win some, lose some."
"Sensible attitude. Considering the state of womanhood these days.'' The man hoisted a glass of Scotch to his lips. "But then, I could have predicted she'd be a no go."
"Sounds like an expert talking."
"No, I sat behind her on the plane. Listened to some oily Frenchman ooze his entire repertoire all over her. Smashing lines, I have to say, but she didn't fall for it." He squinted at Guy. "Weren't
you
on that flight out of Bangkok?"
Guy nodded. He didn't remember the man, but then, he'd spent the entire flight white-knuckling his armrest and gulping down whiskey. Airplanes did that to him. Even nice big 747s with nice French stewardesses. It never failed to astonish him that the wings didn't fall off.
At the other end of the garden, the trio of Russians had started to sing. Not, unfortunately, in the same key. Maybe not even the same song. It was hard to tell.
"Never would've guessed it," the Englishman said, glancing over at the Russians. "I still remember the Yanks drinking at that very table. Never would've guessed there'd be Russians sitting there one day."
"When were you here?"
'' Sixty-eight to '75." He held out a pudgy hand in greeting. "Dodge Hamilton,
London Post.
"
"Guy Barnard. Ex-draftee." He shook the man's hand. "Reporter, huh? You here on a story?"
"I was." Hamilton looked mournfully at his Scotch. "But it's fallen through."
"What has? Your interviews?"
"No, the concept. I called it a sentimental journey. Visit to old friends in Saigon. Or, rather, to one friend in particular." He took a swallow of Scotch. "But she's gone."
"Oh. A woman."
"That's right, a woman. Half the human race, but they might as well be from Mars for all I understand the sex." He slapped down the glass and motioned for another refill. The bartender resignedly shoved the whole bottle of " Scotch over to Hamilton. "See, the story I had in mind was the search for a lost love. You know, the sort of copy that sells papers. My editor went wild about it." He poured the Scotch, recklessly filling the glass to the brim. "Ha! Lost love! I stopped by her old house today, over on Rue Catinat. Or what used to be Rue Catinat. Found her brother still living there. But it seems my old love ran away with some new love. A sergeant. From Memphis, no less."
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.
Chantal 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 the 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.