Double Impact

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Things are being arranged.”

  “What sorts of things?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Ainh’s handling the details, and-”

  “Mr. Ainh? You don’t mean your tour guide?” He burst out laughing.

  “Just why is that so funny?” she demanded.

  “You’re right,” Guy said, swallowing his laughter. “It’s not funny. It’s pathetic. Do you want an advance look in my crystal ball? Because I can tell you exactly what’s going to happen. First thing in the morning, your guide will show up with an apologetic look on his face.”

  “Why apologetic?”

  “Because he’ll tell you the ministry is closed for the day. After all, it’s the grand and glorious holiday of July 18.”

  “Holiday? What holiday?”

  “Never mind. He’ll make something up. Then he’ll ask if you wouldn’t rather see the lacquer factory, where you can buy many beautiful gifts to bring home…”

  Now she was laughing. Those were, in fact, Mr. Ainh’s exact words.

  “Then, the following day, he’ll come up with some other reason you can’t visit the ministry. Say, they’re all sick with the swine flu or there’s a critical shortage of pencil erasers. But-you can visit the National Palace!”

  She stopped laughing. “I think I’m beginning to get your point.”

  “It’s not that the man’s deliberately sabotaging your plans. He simply knows how hopeless it is to untangle this bureaucracy. All he wants is to do his own little job, which is to be a tour guide and file innocuous reports about the nice lady tourist. Don’t expect more from him. The poor guy isn’t paid enough for what he already does.”

  “I’m not helpless. I can always start knocking on a few doors myself.”

  “Yeah, but which doors? And where are they hidden? And do you know the secret password?”

  “Guy, you’re making this country sound like a carnival funhouse.”

  “Fun is not the operative word here.”

  “What is the operative word?”

  “Chaos.” He pointed down at the street, where pedestrians and bicycles swarmed in mass anarchy. “See that? That’s how this government works. It’s every man for himself. Ministries competing with ministries, provinces with provinces. Every minor official protecting his own turf. Everyone scared to move an inch without a nod from the powers that be.” He shook his head. “Not a system for the faint of heart.”

  “That’s one thing I’ve never been.”

  “Wait till you’ve been sitting in some sweatbox of a ‘reception’ area for five hours. And your belly hurts from the bad water. And the closest bathroom is a hole in the-”

  “I get the picture.”

  “Do you?”

  “What are you suggesting I do?”

  Smiling, he sat back. “Hang around with me. I have a contact here and there. Not in the Foreign Ministry, I admit, but they might be able to help you.”

  He wants something, she thought. What is it? Though his gaze was unflinching, she sensed a new tension in his posture, saw in his eyes the anticipation rippling beneath the surface.

  “You’re being awfully helpful. Why?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “That’s hardly an answer.”

  “Maybe at heart I’m still the Boy Scout helping old ladies cross the street. Maybe I’m a nice guy.”

  “Maybe you could tell me the truth.”

  “Have you always had this problem trusting men?”

  “Yes, and don’t change the subject.”

  For a moment, he didn’t speak. He sat drumming his fingers against the beer bottle. “Okay,” he admitted. “So I fibbed a little. I was never a Boy Scout. But I meant it about helping you out. The offer stands.”

  She didn’t say a thing. For Guy, that silence, that look of skepticism, said it all. The woman didn’t trust him. But why not, when he’d sounded his most sincere? He wondered what had made her so mistrustful. Too many hard knocks in life? Too many men who’d lied to her?

  Well, watch out, baby, ’cause this one’s no different, he thought with a twinge of self-disgust.

  He just as quickly shook off the feeling. The stakes were too high to be developing a conscience. Especially at his age.

  Now he’d have to tell another lie. He’d been lying a lot lately. It didn’t get any easier.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart.”

  She didn’t look surprised. That annoyed him. “What do you expect in return?” she asked, her eyes hard on his. “Money?” She paused. “Sex?”

  That last word, flung out so matter-of-factly, made his belly do a tiny loop-the-loop. Not that he hadn’t already thought about that particular subject. He’d thought about it a lot ever since he’d met her. And now that she was sitting only a few feet away, watching him with those unyielding eyes, he was having trouble keeping certain images out of his head. Briefly he considered the possibility of throwing a little sex into the deal, but he just as quickly discarded the idea. He felt low enough as it was.

  He calmly reached for the Heineken. The frostiness had gone out of the bottle. “No,” he said. “Sex isn’t part of the bargain.”

  “I see.” She bit her lip. “Then it’s money.”

  He gave a nod.

  “I think you should know that I don’t have any. Not for you, anyway.”

  “It’s not your money I’m after.”

  “Then whose?”

  He paused, willing his expression to remain bland. His voice dropped to a murmur. “Have you ever heard of the Ariel Group?”

  “Never.”

  “Neither had I. Until two weeks ago, when I was contacted by two of their representatives. They’re a veterans’ organization, dedicated to bringing our MIAs home-alive. Even if it means launching a Rambo operation.”

  “I see,” she said, her lips tightening. “We’re talking about paramilitary kooks.”

  “That’s what I thought-at first. I was about to kick ’em out of my office when they pulled out a check-a very generous one, I might add. Twenty thousand. For expenses, they said.”

  “Expenses? What are they asking you to do?”

  “A little moonlighting. They knew I was scheduled to fly in-country. They wanted me to conduct a small, private search for MIAs. But they aren’t interested in skeletons and dog tags. They’re after flesh and blood.”

  “Live ones? You don’t really think there are any, do you?”

  “They do. And they only have to produce one. A single living MIA to back up their claims. With the publicity that’d generate, Washington would be forced to take action.”

  He fell silent as the waiter came by to collect the empty beer bottles. Only when the man had left did Willy ask softly, “And where do I come in?”

  “It’s not you. It’s your father. From what you’ve told me, there’s a chance-a small one, to be sure-that he’s still alive. If he is, I can help you find him. I can help you bring him home.”

  His words, uttered so quietly, so confidently, made Willy fall still. Guy could tell she was trying to read his face, trying to figure out what he wasn’t telling her. And he wasn’t telling her a lot.

  “What do you get out of this?” she asked.

  “You mean besides the pleasure of your company?”

  “You said there was money involved. Since I’m not paying you, I assume someone else is. The Ariel Group? Are they offering you more than just expenses?”

  “Move to the head of the class.”

  “How much?”

  “For an honest to God live one? Two million.”

  “Two million dollars?”

  He squeezed her hand, hard. “Keep it down, will you? This isn’t exactly public information.”

  She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You’re serious? Two million?”

  “That’s their offer. Now you think about my offer. Work with me, and we could both come out ahead. You’d get your father back. I’
d pick up a nice little retirement fund. A win-win situation.” He grinned, knowing he had her now. She’d be stupid to refuse. And Willy Maitland was definitely not stupid. “I think you’ll agree,” he said. “It’s a match made in heaven.”

  “Or hell,” she muttered darkly. She sat back and gave him a look of pure cast iron. “You’re nothing but a bounty hunter.”

  “If that’s what you want to call me.”

  “I could call you quite a few things. None of them flattering.”

  “Before you start calling me names, maybe you should think about your options. Which happen to be pretty limited. The way I see it, you can go it alone, which so far hasn’t gotten you a helluva lot of mileage. Or-” he leaned forward and beamed her his most convincing smile “-you could work with me.”

  Her mouth tightened. “I don’t work with mercenaries.”

  “What’ve you got against mercenaries?”

  “Just a minor matter-principle.”

  “It’s the money that bothers you, isn’t it? The fact that I’m doing it for cash and not out of the goodness of my heart.”

  “This isn’t some big-game hunt! We’re talking about men. Men whose families have wiped out their savings to pay worthless little Rambos like you! I know those families. Some of them are still hanging in, twisting around on that one shred of hope. And you know as well as I do that those soldiers aren’t sitting around in some POW camp, waiting to be rescued. They’re dead.”

  “You think your old man’s alive.”

  “He’s a different story.”

  “Right. And every one of those five hundred other MIAs could be another ‘different story.’”

  “I happen to have evidence!”

  “But you don’t have the smarts it takes to find him.” Guy leaned forward, his gaze hard on hers. In the last light of sunset, her face seemed alight with fire, her cheeks glowing a beautiful dusky red. “If he’s alive, you can’t afford to screw up this chance. And you may get only one chance to find him. Because I’ll tell you now, the Vietnamese won’t let you back in the country for another deluxe tour. Admit it, Willy. You need me.”

  “No,” she shot back. “You need me. Without my help, how are you going to cash in on your ‘live one’?”

  “How’re you going to find him?”

  She was the one leaning forward now, so close, he almost pulled back in surprise. “Don’t underestimate me, sleazeball,” she muttered.

  “And don’t overestimate yourself, Junior. It’s not easy finding answers in this country. No one, nothing’s ever what it seems here. A flicker in the eye, a break in the voice can mean all the difference in the world. You need a partner. And, hey, I’m not unreasonable. I’ll even think about splitting the reward with you. Say, ten percent. That’s money you never expected, just to let me-”

  “I don’t give a damn about the money!” She rose sharply to her feet. “Go get rich off someone else’s old man.” She spun around and walked away.

  “Won’t you even think about it?” he yelled.

  She just kept marching away across the rooftop garden, oblivious to the curious glances aimed her way.

  “Take it from me, Willy! You need me!”

  A trio of Russian tourists, their faces ruddy from a few rounds of vodka, glanced up as she passed. One of the men raised his glass in a drunken salute. “Maybe you like Russian man better?” he shouted.

  She didn’t even break her stride. But as she walked away, every guest on that rooftop heard her answer, which came floating back with disarming sweetness over her shoulder. “Go to hellski.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  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?