Double Impact: Never Say DieNo Way Back Read online

  “Maybe you haven’t gone to the right people.”

  “Who are the right people?”

  Quietly, Guy shifted toward her. “I have connections,” he said softly. “I could find out for you.”

  Their hands brushed on the railing; Willy felt a delicious shock race through her whole arm. She pulled her hand away.

  “What sort of connections?”

  “Friends in the business.”

  “Exactly what is your business?”

  “Body counts. Dog tags. I’m with the Army ID Lab.”

  “I see. You’re in the military.”

  He laughed and leaned sideways against the railing. “No way. I bailed out after Nam. Went back to college, got a master’s in stones and bones. That’s physical anthropology, emphasis on Southeast Asia. Anyway, I worked a while in a museum, then found out the army paid better. So I hired on as a civilian contractor. I’m still sorting bones, only these have names, ranks and serial numbers.”

  “And that’s why you’re going to Vietnam?”

  He nodded. “There are new sets of remains to pick up in Saigon and Hanoi.”

  Remains. Such a clinical word for what was once a human being.

  “I know a few people,” he said. “I might be able to help you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve made me curious.”

  “Is that all it is? Curiosity?”

  His next move startled her. He reached out and brushed back her short, tumbled hair. The brief contact of his fingers seemed to leave her whole neck sizzling. She froze, unable to react to this unexpectedly intimate contact.

  “Maybe I’m just a nice guy,” he whispered.

  Oh, hell, he’s going to kiss me, she thought. He’s going to kiss me and I’m going to let him, and what happens next is anyone’s guess….

  She batted his hand away and took a panicked step back. “I don’t believe in nice guys.”

  “Afraid of men?”

  “I’m not afraid of men. But I don’t trust them, either.”

  “Still,” he said with an obvious note of laughter in his voice, “you let me into your room.”

  “Maybe it’s time to let you out.” She stalked across the room and yanked open the door. “Or are you going to be difficult?”

  “Me?” To her surprise, he followed her to the door. “I’m never difficult.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Besides, I can’t hang around tonight. I’ve got more important business.”

  “Really.”

  “Really.” He glanced at the lock on her door. “I see you’ve got a heavy-duty dead bolt. Use it. And take my advice—don’t go out on the town tonight.”

  “Darn! That was next on my agenda.”

  “Oh, and in case you need me—” he turned and grinned at her from the doorway “—I’m staying at the Liberty Hotel. Call anytime.”

  She started to snap, Don’t hold your breath. But before she could get out the words, he’d left.

  She was staring at a closed door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TOBIAS WOLFF swiveled his wheelchair around from the liquor cabinet and faced his old friend. “If I were you, Guy, I’d stay the hell out of it.”

  It had been five years since they’d last seen each other. Toby still looked as muscular as ever—at least from the waist up. Fifteen years’ confinement to a wheelchair had bulked out those shoulders and arms. Still, the years had taken their inevitable toll. Toby was close to fifty now, and he looked it. His bushy hair, cut Beethoven style, was almost entirely gray. His face was puffy and sweating in the tropical heat. But the dark eyes were as sharp as ever.

  “Take some advice from an old Company man,” he said, handing Guy a glass of Scotch. “There’s no such thing as a coincidental meeting. There are only planned encounters.”

  “Coincidence or not,” said Guy, “Willy Maitland could be the break I’ve been waiting for.”

  “Or she could be nothing but trouble.”

  “What’ve I got to lose?”

  “Your life?”

  “Come on, Toby! You’re the only one I can trust to give me a straight answer.”

  “It was a long time ago. I wasn’t directly connected to the case.”

  “But you were in Vientiane when it happened. You must remember something about the Maitland file.”

  “Only what I heard in passing, none of it confirmed. Hell, it was like the Wild West out there. Rumors flying thicker’n the mosquitoes.”

  “But not as thick as you covert-action boys.”

  Toby shrugged. “We had a job to do. We did it.”

  “You remember who handled the Maitland case?”

  “Had to be Mike Micklewait. I know he was the case officer who debriefed that villager—the one who came in for the reward.”

  “Did Micklewait think the man was on the level?”

  “Probably not. I know the villager never got the reward.”

  “Why wasn’t Maitland’s family told about all this?”

  “Hey, Maitland wasn’t some poor dumb draftee. He was working for Air America. In other words, CIA. That’s a job you don’t talk about. Maitland knew the risks.”

  “The family deserved to hear about any new evidence.” Guy thought about the surreptitious way Willy and her mother had learned of it.

  Toby laughed. “There was a secret war going on, remember? We weren’t even supposed to be in Laos. Keeping families informed was at the bottom of anyone’s priority list.”

  “Was there some other reason it was hushed up? Something to do with the passenger?”

  Toby’s eyebrows shot up. “Where did you hear that rumor?”

  “Willy Maitland. She heard there was a Lao on board. Everyone’s denying his existence, so my guess is he was a very important person. Who was he?”

  “I don’t know.” Toby wheeled around and looked out the open window of his apartment. From the darkness came the sounds and smells of the Bangkok streets. Meat sizzling on an open-air grill. Women laughing. The rumble of a tuk-tuk. “There was a hell of a lot going on back then. Things we never talked about. Things we were even ashamed to talk about. What with all the agents and counteragents and generals and soldiers of fortune, you could never really be sure who was running the place. Everyone was pulling strings, trying to get rich quick. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out.” He slapped the wheelchair in anger. “And this is where I end up. Great retirement.” Sighing, he leaned back and stared out at the night. “Let it be, Guy,” he said softly. “If you’re right—if someone’s out to hit Maitland’s kid—then this is too hot to handle.”

  “Toby, that’s the point! Why is the case so hot? Why, after all these years, would Maitland’s brat be making them nervous? What do they think she’ll find out?”

  “Does she know what she’s getting into?”

  “I doubt it. Anyway, nothing’ll stop this dame. She’s a chip off the old block.”

  “Meaning she’s trouble. How’re you going to get her to work with you?”

  “That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet.”

  “There’s always the Romeo approach.”

  Guy grinned. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  In fact, that was precisely the tactic he’d been considering all evening. Not because he was so sure it would work, but because she was an attractive woman and he couldn’t help wondering what she was really like under that tough-gal facade.

  “Alternatively,” Toby said, “you could try telling her the truth. That you’re not after her. You’re after the three million bounty.”

  “Two million.”

  “Two million, three million, what’s the difference? It’s a lot of dough.”

  “And I could use a lot of help,” Guy said with quiet significance.

  Toby sighed. “Okay,” he said, at last wheeling around to look at him. “You want a name, I’ll give you one. May or may not help you. Try Alain Gerard, a Frenchman, living these days in Saigon. He used to have close ties
with the Company, knew all the crap going on in Vientiane.”

  “Ex-Company and living in Saigon? Why haven’t the Vietnamese kicked him out?”

  “He’s useful to them. During the war he made his money exporting, shall we say, raw pharmaceuticals. Now he’s turned humanitarian in his old age. U.S. trade embargoes cut the Viets off from Western markets. Gerard brings in medical supplies from France, antibiotics, X-ray film. In return, they let him stay in the country.”

  “Can I trust him?”

  “He’s ex-Company.”

  “Then I can’t trust him.”

  Toby grunted. “You seem to trust me.”

  “You’re different.”

  “That’s only because I owe you, Barnard. Though I often think you should’ve left me to burn in that plane.” Toby kneaded his senseless thighs. “No one has much use for half a man.”

  “Doesn’t take legs to make a man, Toby.”

  “Ha. Tell that to Uncle Sam.” Using his powerful arms, Toby shifted his weight in the chair. “When’re you leaving for Saigon?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I moved my flight up a few days.” Guy’s palms were already sweating at the thought of boarding that Air France plane. He tossed back a mind-numbing gulp of Scotch. “Wish I could take a boat instead.”

  Toby laughed. “You’d be the first boat person going back to Vietnam. Still scared to fly, huh?”

  “White knuckles and all.” He set his glass down and headed for the door. “Thanks for the drink. And the tip.”

  “I’ll see what else I can do for you,” Toby called after him. “I still might have a few contacts in-country. Maybe I can get ’em to watch over you. And the woman. By the way, is anyone keeping an eye on her tonight?”

  “Some buddies of Puapong’s. They won’t let anyone near her. She should get to the airport in one piece.”

  “And what happens then?”

  Guy paused in the doorway. “We’ll be in Saigon. Things’ll be safer there.”

  “In Saigon?” Toby shook his head. “Don’t count on it.”

  THE CROWD AT THE Bong Bong Club had turned wild, the men drunkenly shouting and groping at the stage as the girls, dead-eyed, danced on. No one took notice of the two men huddled at a dark corner table.

  “I am disappointed, Mr. Siang. You’re a professional, or so I thought. I fully expected you to deliver. Yet the woman is still alive.”

  Stung by the insult, Siang felt his face tighten. He was not accustomed to failure—or to criticism. He was glad the darkness hid his burning cheeks as he set his glass of vodka down on the table. “I tell you, this could not be predicted. There was interference—a man—”

  “Yes, an American, so I’ve been told. A Mr. Barnard.”

  Siang was startled. “You’ve learned his name?”

  “I make it a point to know everything.”

  Siang touched his bruised face and winced. This Mr. Barnard certainly had a savage punch. If they ever crossed paths again, Siang would make him pay for this humiliation.

  “The woman leaves for Saigon tomorrow,” said the man.

  “Tomorrow?” Siang shook his head. “That does not leave me enough time.”

  “You have tonight.”

  “Tonight? Impossible.” Siang had, in fact, already spent the past four hours trying to get near the woman. But the desk clerk at the Oriental had stood watch like a guard dog over the passkeys, the hotel security officer refused to leave his post near the elevators, and a bellboy kept strolling up and down the hall. The woman had been untouchable. Siang had briefly considered climbing up the balcony, but his approach was hampered by two vagrants camped on the riverbank beneath her window. Though hostile-looking, the tramps had posed no real threat to a man like Siang, but he hadn’t wanted to risk a foolish, potentially messy scene.

  And now his professional reputation was at stake.

  “The matter grows more urgent,” said the man. “This must be done soon.”

  “But she leaves Bangkok tomorrow. I can make no guarantees.”

  “Then do it in Saigon. Whether you finish it here or there, it has to be done.”

  Siang was stunned. “Saigon? I cannot return—”

  “We’ll send you under Thai diplomatic cover. A cultural attaché, perhaps. I’ll decide and arrange the entry papers accordingly.”

  “Vietnamese security is tight. I will not be able to bring in any—”

  “The diplomatic pouch goes out twice a week. Next drop is in three days. I’ll see what weapons I can slip through. Until then, you’ll have to improvise.”

  Siang fell silent, wondering how it would feel to once again walk the streets of Saigon. And he wondered about Chantal. How many years had it been since he’d seen her? Did she still hate him for leaving her behind? Of course, she would; she never forgot a grudge. Somehow, he’d have to work his way back into her affections. He didn’t think that would be too difficult. Life in the new Vietnam must be hard these days, especially for a woman. Chantal liked her comforts; for a few precious luxuries, she might do anything. Even sell her soul.

  She was a woman he could understand.

  He looked across the table. “There will be expenses.”

  The man nodded. “I can be generous. As you well know.”

  Already Siang was making a mental list of what he’d need. Old clothes—frayed shirts and faded trousers—so he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Cigarettes, soap and razor blades for bartering favors on the streets. And then he’d need a few special gifts for Chantal….

  He nodded. The bargain was struck.

  “One more thing,” said the man as he rose to leave.

  “Yes?”

  “Other…parties seem to be involved. The Company, for instance. I wouldn’t want to pull that particular tiger’s tail. So keep bloodshed to a minimum. Only the woman dies. No one else.”

  “I understand.”

  After the man had left, Siang sat alone at the corner table, thinking. Remembering Saigon. Had it really been fifteen years? His last memories of the city were of panicked faces, of hands clawing frantically at a helicopter door, of the roar of chopper blades and the swirl of dust as the rooftops fell away.

  Siang took a deep swallow of vodka and stood to leave. Just then, whistles and applause rose from the crowd gathered around the dance stage. A lone girl stood brown and naked in the spotlight. Around her waist was wrapped an eight-foot boa constrictor. The girl seemed to shudder as the snake slithered down between her thighs. The men shouted their approval.

  Siang grinned. Ah, the Bong Bong Club. Always something new.

  Saigon

  FROM THE ROOFTOP GARDEN of the Rex Hotel, Willy watched the bicycles thronging the intersection of Le Loi and Nguyen Hue. A collision seemed inevitable, only a matter of time. Riders whisked through at breakneck speed, blithely ignoring the single foolhardy pedestrian inching fearfully across the street. Willy was so intent on silently cheering the man on that she scarcely registered the monotonous voice of her government escort.

  “And tomorrow, we will take you by car to see the National Palace, where the puppet government ruled in luxury, then on to the Museum of History, where you will learn about our struggles against the Chinese and the French imperialists. The next day, you will see our lacquer factory, where you can buy many beautiful gifts to bring home. And then—”

  “Mr. Ainh,” Willy said with a sigh, turning at last to her guide. “It all sounds very fascinating, this tour you’ve planned. But have you looked into my other business?”

  Ainh blinked. Though his frame was chopstick thin, he had a cherubic face made owlish by his thick glasses. “Miss Maitland,” he said in a hurt voice, “I have arranged a private car! And many wonderful meals.”

  “Yes, I appreciate that, but—”

  “You are unhappy with your itinerary?”

  “To be perfectly honest, I don’t really care about a tour. I want to find out about my father.”

  “But you have paid for a tour! We must pr
ovide one.”

  “I paid for the tour to get a visa. Now that I’m here, I need to talk to the right people. You can arrange that for me, can’t you?”

  Ainh shifted nervously. “This is a…a complication. I do not know if I can…that is, it is not what I…” He drifted into helpless silence.

  “Some months ago, I wrote to your foreign ministry about my father. They never wrote back. If you could arrange an appointment…”

  “How many months ago did you write?”

  “Six, at least.”

  “You are impatient. You cannot expect instant results.”

  She sighed. “Obviously not.”

  “Besides, you wrote the Foreign Ministry. I have nothing to do with them. I am with the Ministry of Tourism.”

  “And you folks don’t communicate with each other, is that it?”

  “They are in a different building.”

  “Then maybe—if it’s not too much trouble—you could take me to their building?”

  He looked at her bleakly. “But then who will take the tour?”

  “Mr. Ainh,” she said with gritted teeth, “cancel the tour.”

  Ainh looked like a man with a terrible headache. Willy almost felt sorry for him as she watched him retreat across the rooftop garden. She could imagine the bureaucratic quicksand he would have to wade through to honor her request. She’d already seen how the system operated—or, rather, how it didn’t operate. That afternoon, at Ton Son Nhut Airport, it had taken three hours in the suffocating heat just to run the gauntlet of immigration officials.

  A breeze swept the terrace, the first she’d felt all afternoon. Though she’d showered only an hour ago, her clothes were already soaked with sweat. Sinking into a chair, she gazed off at the skyline of Saigon, now painted a dusty gold in the sunset. Once, this must have been a glorious town of tree-lined boulevards and outdoor cafés where one could while away the afternoons sipping coffee.

  But after its fall to the North, Saigon slid from the dizzy impudence of wealth to the resignation of poverty. The signs of decay were everywhere, from the chipped paint on the old French colonials to the skeletons of buildings left permanently unfinished. Even the Rex Hotel, luxurious by local standards, seemed to be fraying at the edges. The terrace stones were cracked. In the fish pond, three listless carp drifted like dead leaves. The rooftop swimming pool had bloomed an unhealthy shade of green. A lone Russian tourist sat on the side and dangled his legs in the murky water, as though weighing the risks of a swim.