Never Say Die / Whistleblower Page 2

  They rose to their feet. As they shook hands, she felt him give her one last, appraising look. His grip was brisk and matter-of-fact, exactly what she expected from an old war dog.

  “Good luck, Miss Maitland,” he said with a nod of dismissal. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  He turned to look off at the mountains. That’s when she noticed for the first time that tiny beads of sweat were glistening like diamonds on his forehead.

  General Kistner watched as the woman, escorted by a servant, walked back toward the house. He was uneasy. He remembered Wild Bill Maitland only too clearly, and the daughter was very much like him. There would be trouble.

  He went to the tea table and rang a silver bell. The tinkling drifted across the expanse of veranda, and seconds later, Kistner’s secretary appeared.

  “Has Mr. Barnard arrived?” Kistner asked.

  “He has been waiting for half an hour,” the man replied.

  “And Ms. Maitland’s driver?”

  “I sent him away, as you directed.”

  “Good.” Kistner nodded. “Good.”

  “Shall I bring Mr. Barnard in to see you?”

  “No. Tell him I’m canceling my appointments. Tomorrow’s, as well.”

  The secretary frowned. “He will be quite annoyed.”

  “Yes, I imagine he will be,” said Kistner as he turned and headed toward his office. “But that’s his problem.”

  A Thai servant in a crisp white jacket escorted Willy through an echoing, cathedral-like hall to the reception room. There he stopped and gave her a politely questioning look. “You wish me to call a car?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. My driver will take me back.”

  The servant looked puzzled. “But your driver left some time ago.”

  “He couldn’t have!” She glanced out the window in annoyance. “He was supposed to wait for—”

  “Perhaps he is parked in the shade beyond the trees. I will go and look.”

  Through the French windows, Willy watched as the servant skipped gracefully down the steps to the road. The estate was vast and lushly planted; a car could very well be hidden in that jungle. Just beyond the driveway, a gardener clipped a hedge of jasmine. A neatly graveled path traced a route across the lawn to a tree-shaded garden of flowers and stone benches. And in the far distance, a fairy blue haze seemed to hang over the city of Bangkok.

  The sound of a masculine throat being cleared caught her attention. She turned and for the first time noticed the man standing in a far corner of the reception room. He cocked his head in a casual acknowledgment of her presence. She caught a glimpse of a crooked grin, a stray lock of brown hair drooping over a tanned forehead. Then he turned his attention back to the antique tapestry on the wall.

  Strange. He didn’t look like the sort of man who’d be interested in moth-eaten embroidery. A patch of sweat had soaked through the back of his khaki shirt, and his sleeves were shoved up carelessly to his elbows. His trousers looked as if they’d been slept in for a week. A briefcase, stamped U.S. Army ID Lab, sat on the floor beside him, but he didn’t strike her as the military type. There was certainly nothing disciplined about his posture. He’d seem more at home slouching at a bar somewhere instead of cooling his heels in General Kistner’s marble reception room.

  “Miss Maitland?”

  The servant was back, shaking his head apologetically. “There must have been a misunderstanding. The gardener says your driver returned to the city.”

  “Oh, no.” She looked out the window in frustration. “How do I get back to Bangkok?”

  “Perhaps General Kistner’s driver can take you back? He has gone up the road to make a delivery, but he should return very soon. If you wish, you can see the garden in the meantime.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose that’d be nice.”

  The servant, smiling proudly, opened the door. “It is a very famous garden. General Kistner is known for his collection of dendrobiums. You will find them at the end of the path, near the carp pond.”

  She stepped out into the steam bath of late afternoon and started down the gravel path. Except for the clack-clack of the gardener’s hedge clippers, the day was absolutely still. She headed toward a stand of trees. But halfway across the lawn she suddenly stopped and looked back at the house.

  At first all she saw was sunlight glaring off the marble facade. Then she focused on the first floor and saw the figure of a man standing at one of the windows. The servant, perhaps?

  Turning, she continued along the path. But every step of the way, she was acutely aware that someone was watching her.

  Guy Barnard stood at the French windows and observed the woman cross the lawn to the garden. He liked the way the sunlight seemed to dance in her clipped, honey-colored hair. He also liked the way she moved, the coltish swing of her walk. Methodically, his gaze slid down, over the sleeveless blouse and the skirt with its regrettably sensible hemline, taking in the essentials. Trim waist. Sweet hips. Nice calves. Nice ankles. Nice…

  He reluctantly cut off that disturbing train of thought. This was not a good time to be distracted. Still, he couldn’t help one last appreciative glance at the diminutive figure. Okay, so she was a touch on the scrawny side. But she had great legs. Definitely great legs.

  Footsteps clipped across the marble floor. Guy turned and saw Kistner’s secretary, an unsmiling Thai with a beardless face.

  “Mr. Barnard?” said the secretary. “Our apologies for the delay. But an urgent matter has come up.”

  “Will he see me now?”

  The secretary shifted uneasily. “I am afraid—”

  “I’ve been waiting since three.”

  “Yes, I understand. But there is a problem. It seems General Kistner cannot meet with you as planned.”

  “May I remind you that I didn’t request this meeting. General Kistner did.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ve taken time out of my busy schedule—” he took the liberty of exaggeration “—to drive all the way out here, and—”

  “I understand, but—”

  “At least tell me why he insisted on this appointment.”

  “You will have to ask him.”

  Guy, who up till now had kept his irritation in check, drew himself up straight. Though he wasn’t a particularly tall man, he stood a full head taller than the secretary. “Is this how the general normally conducts business?”

  The secretary merely shrugged. “I am sorry, Mr. Barnard. The change was entirely unexpected….” His gaze shifted momentarily and focused on something beyond the French windows.

  Guy followed the man’s gaze. Through the glass, he saw what the man was looking at: the woman with the honey-colored hair.

  The secretary shuffled his feet, a signal that he had other duties to attend to. “I assure you, Mr. Barnard,” he said, “if you call in a few days, we will arrange another appointment.”

  Guy snatched up his briefcase and headed for the door. “In a few days,” he said, “I’ll be in Saigon.”

  A whole afternoon wasted, he thought in disgust as he walked down the front steps. He swore again as he reached the empty driveway. His car was parked a good hundred yards away, in the shade of a poinciana tree. The driver was nowhere to be seen. Knowing Puapong, the man was probably off flirting with the gardener’s daughter.

  Resignedly Guy trudged toward the car. The sun was like a broiler, and waves of heat radiated from the gravel road. Halfway to the car, he happened to glance at the garden, and he spotted the honey-haired woman, sitting on a stone bench. She looked dejected. No wonder; it was a long drive back to town, and Lord only knew when her ride would turn up.

  What the hell, he thought, starting toward her. He could use some company.

  She seemed to be deep in thought; she didn’t look up until he was standing right beside her.

  “Hi there,” he said.

  She squinted up at him. “Hello.” Her greeting was neutral, neither friendly nor unfrien
dly.

  “Did I hear you needed a lift back to town?”

  “I have one, thank you.”

  “It could be a long wait. And I’m heading there anyway.” She didn’t respond, so he added, “It’s really no trouble.”

  She gave him a speculative look. She had silver-gray eyes, direct, unflinching; they seemed to stare right through him. No shrinking violet, this one. Glancing back at the house, she said, “Kistner’s driver was going to take me….”

  “I’m here. He isn’t.”

  Again she gave him that look, a silent third degree. She must have decided he was okay, because she finally rose to her feet. “Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

  Together they walked the graveled road to his car. As they approached, Guy noticed a back door was wide open and a pair of dirty brown feet poked out. His driver was sprawled across the seat like a corpse.

  The woman halted, staring at the lifeless form. “Oh, my God. He’s not—”

  A blissful snore rumbled from the car.

  “He’s not,” said Guy. “Hey. Puapong!” He banged on the car roof.

  The man’s answering rumble could have drowned out thunder.

  “Hello, Sleeping Beauty!” Guy banged the car again. “You gonna wake up, or do I have to kiss you first?”

  “What? What?” groaned a voice. Puapong stirred and opened one bloodshot eye. “Hey, boss. You back so soon?”

  “Have a nice nap?” Guy asked pleasantly.

  “Not bad.”

  Guy graciously gestured for Puapong to vacate the back seat. “Look, I hate to be a pest, but do you mind? I’ve offered this lady a ride.”

  Puapong crawled out, stumbled around sleepily to the driver’s seat and sank behind the wheel. He shook his head a few times, then fished around on the floor for the car keys.

  The woman was looking more and more dubious. “Are you sure he can drive?” she muttered under her breath.

  “This man,” said Guy, “has the reflexes of a cat. When he’s sober.”

  “Is he sober?”

  “Puapong! Are you sober?”

  With injured pride, the driver asked, “Don’t I look sober?”

  “There’s your answer,” said Guy.

  The woman sighed. “That makes me feel so much better.” She glanced back longingly at the house. The Thai servant had appeared on the steps and was waving goodbye.

  Guy motioned for the woman to climb in. “It’s a long drive back to town.”

  She was silent as they drove down the winding mountain road. Though they both sat in the back seat, two feet apart at the most, she seemed a million miles away. She kept her gaze focused on the scenery.

  “You were in with the general quite a while,” he noted.

  She nodded. “I had a lot of questions.”

  “You a reporter?”

  “What?” She looked at him. “Oh, no. It was just…some old family business.”

  He waited for her to elaborate, but she turned back to the window.

  “Must’ve been some pretty important family business,” he said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Right after you left, he canceled all his appointments. Mine included.”

  “You didn’t get in to see him?”

  “Never got past the secretary. And Kistner’s the one who asked to see me.”

  She frowned for a moment, obviously puzzled. Then she shrugged. “I’m sure I had nothing to do with it.”

  And I’m just as sure you did, he thought in sudden irritation. Lord, why was the woman making him so antsy? She was sitting perfectly still, but he got the distinct feeling a hurricane was churning in that pretty head. He’d decided that she was pretty after all, in a no-nonsense sort of way. She was smart not to use any makeup; it would only cheapen that girl-next-door face. He’d never before had any interest in the girl-next-door type. Maybe the girl down the street or across the tracks. But this one was different. She had eyes the color of smoke, a square jaw and a little boxer’s nose, lightly dusted with freckles. She also had a mouth that, given the right situation, could be quite kissable.

  Automatically he asked, “So how long will you be in Bangkok?”

  “I’ve been here two days already. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  Damn, he thought.

  “For Saigon.”

  His chin snapped up in surprise. “Saigon?”

  “Or Ho Chi Minh City. Whatever they call it these days.”

  “Now that’s a coincidence,” he said softly.

  “What is?”

  “In two days, I’m leaving for Saigon.”

  “Are you?” She glanced at the briefcase, stenciled with U.S. Army ID Lab, lying on the seat. “Government affairs?”

  He nodded. “What about you?”

  She looked straight ahead. “Family business.”

  “Right,” he said, wondering what the hell business her family was in. “You ever been to Saigon?”

  “Once. But I was only ten years old.”

  “Dad in the service?”

  “Sort of.” Her gaze stayed fixed on some faraway point ahead. “I don’t remember too much of the city. Lot of dust and heat and cars. One big traffic jam. And the beautiful women…”

  “It’s changed a lot since then. Most of the cars are gone.”

  “And the beautiful women?”

  He laughed. “Oh, they’re still around. Along with the heat and dust. But everything else has changed.” He was silent a moment. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “If you get stuck, I might be able to show you around.”

  She hesitated, obviously tempted by his invitation. Come on, come on, take me up on it, he thought. Then he caught a glimpse of Puapong, grinning and winking wickedly at him in the rearview mirror.

  He only hoped the woman hadn’t noticed.

  But Willy most certainly had seen Puapong’s winks and grins and had instantly comprehended the meaning. Here we go again, she thought wearily. Now he’ll ask me if I want to have dinner and I’ll say no I can’t, and then he’ll say, what about a drink? and I’ll break down and say yes because he’s such a damnably good-looking man….

  “Look, I happen to be free tonight,” he said. “Would you like to have dinner?”

  “I can’t,” she said, wondering who had written this tired script and how one ever broke out of it.

  “Then how about a drink?” He shot her a half smile and she felt herself teetering at the edge of a very high cliff. The crazy part was, he really wasn’t a handsome man at all. His nose was crooked, as if, after managing to get it broken, he hadn’t bothered to set it back in place. His hair was in need of a barber or at least a comb. She guessed he was somewhere in his late thirties, though the years scarcely showed except around his eyes, where deep laugh lines creased the corners. No, she’d seen far better-looking men. Men who offered more than a sweaty one-night grope in a foreign hotel.

  So why is this guy getting to me?

  “Just a drink?” he offered again.

  “Thanks,” she said. “But no thanks.”

  To her relief, he didn’t press the issue. He nodded, sat back and looked out the window. His fingers drummed the briefcase. The mindless rhythm drove her crazy. She tried to ignore him, just as he was trying to ignore her, but it was hopeless. He was too imposing a presence.

  By the time they pulled up at the Oriental Hotel, she was ready to leap out of the car. She practically did.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said, and slammed the door shut.

  “Hey, wait!” called the man through the open window. “I never caught your name!”

  “Willy.”

  “You have a last name?”

  She turned and started up the hotel steps. “Maitland,” she said over her shoulder.

  “See you around, Willy Maitland!” the man yelled.

  Not likely, she thought. But as she reached the lobby doors, she couldn’t help glancing back and watching the car disappear around the corner. That’s when she re
alized she didn’t even know the man’s name.

  Guy sat on his bed in the Liberty Hotel and wondered what had compelled him to check into this dump. Nostalgia, maybe. Plus cheap government rates. He’d always stayed here on his trips to Bangkok, ever since the war, and he’d never seen the need for a change until now. Certainly the place held a lot of memories. He’d never forget those hot, lusty nights of 1973. He’d been a twenty-year-old private on R and R; she’d been a thirty-year-old army nurse. Darlene. Yeah, that was her name. The last he’d seen of her, she was a chain-smoking mother of three and about fifty pounds overweight. What a shame. The woman, like the hotel, had definitely gone downhill.

  Maybe I have, too, he thought wearily as he stared out the dirty window at the streets of Bangkok. How he used to love this city, loved the days of wandering through the markets, where the colors were so bright they hurt the eyes; loved the nights of prowling the back streets of Pat Pong, where the music and the girls never quit. Nothing bothered him in those days—not the noise or the heat or the smells.

  Not even the bullets. He’d felt immune, immortal. It was always the other guy who caught the bullet, the other guy who got shipped home in a box. And if you thought otherwise, if you worried too long and hard about your own mortality, you made a lousy soldier.

  Eventually, he’d become a lousy soldier.

  He was still astonished that he’d survived. It was something he’d never fully understand: the simple fact that he’d made it back alive.

  Especially when he thought of all the other men on that transport plane out of Da Nang. Their ticket home, the magic bird that was supposed to deliver them from all the madness.

  He still had the scars from the crash. He still harbored a mortal dread of flying.

  He refused to think about that upcoming flight to Saigon. Air travel, unfortunately, was part of his job, and this was just one more plane he couldn’t avoid.

  He opened his briefcase, took out a stack of folders and lay down on the bed to read. The file he opened first was one of dozens he’d brought with him from Honolulu. Each contained a name, rank, serial number, photograph and a detailed history—as detailed as possible—of the circumstances of disappearance. This one was a naval airman, Lieutenant Commander Eugene Stoddard, last seen ejecting from his disabled bomber forty miles west of Hanoi. Included was a dental chart and an old X-ray report of an arm fracture sustained as a teenager. What the file left out were the nonessentials: the wife he’d left behind, the children, the questions.