“This was no robbery.” The minister handed the report to Ainh. “He has connections to the old regime.”
Ainh scanned the page. “I see mention only of a woman cousin—a factory worker.” He paused, then looked up in surprise. “A mixed blood.”
The minister nodded. “She is being questioned now. Shall we look in on her?”
* * *
Chantel was slouched on a wooden bench, aiming lethal glares at the policeman in charge of questioning.
“I have done nothing!” she spat out. “Why should I want anyone dead? An American bitch, you say? What, do you think I am crazy? I have been home all night! Talk to the old man who lives above me! Ask him who’s been playing my radio all night! Ask him why he’s been beating on my ceiling, the old crank! Oh, but I could tell you stories about him.”
“You accuse an old man?” said the policeman. “You are the counterrevolutionary! You and your cousin!”
“I hardly know my cousin.”
“You were working together.”
Chantal snorted. “I work in a factory. I have nothing to do with him.”
The policeman swung a bag onto the table. He took out the items, placed them in front of her. “Caviar. Champagne. Pâté. We found these in your cupboards. How does a factory worker afford these things?”
Chantal’s lips tightened, but she said nothing.
The policeman smiled. He gestured to a guard and Chantal, rigidly silent, was led from the room.
The policeman then turned respectfully to the minister, who, along with Ainh, was watching the proceedings. “As you can see, Minister Tranh, she is uncooperative. But give us time. We will think of a way to—”
“Let her go,” said the minister.
The policeman looked startled. “I assure you, she can be made to talk.”
Minister Tranh smiled. “There are other ways to get information. Release her. Then wait for the fly to drift back to the honeypot.”
The policeman left, shaking his head. But, of course, he would do as ordered. After all, Minister Tranh had far more experience in such matters. Hadn’t the old fox honed his skills on years of wartime espionage?
For a long time, the minister sat thinking. Then he picked up the champagne bottle and squinted at the label. “Ah. Taittinger.” He sighed. “A favorite from my days in Paris.” Gently he set the bottle back down and looked at Ainh. “I sense that Miss Maitland has blundered into something dangerous. Perhaps she is asking too many questions. Stirring up dragons from the past.”
“You mean her father?” Ainh shook his head. “That is a very old dragon.”
To which the minister said softly, “But perhaps not a vanquished one.”
* * *
A large black cockroach crawled across the table. One of the guards slapped it with a newspaper, brushed the corpse onto the floor and calmly went on writing. Above him, a ceiling fan whirred in the heat, fluttering papers on the desk.
“Once again, Miss Maitland,” said the officer in charge. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’ve told you everything.”
“I think you have left something out.”
“Nothing. I’ve left nothing out.”
“Yes, you have. There was a gunman.”
“I saw no gunman.”
“We have witnesses. They heard a shot. Who fired the gun?”
“I told you, I didn’t see anyone. The grating was weak—he fell through.”
“Why are you lying?”
Her chin shot up. “Why do you insist I’m lying?”
“Because we both know you are.”
“Lay off her!” Guy cut in. “She’s told you everything she knows.”
The officer turned, looked at Guy. “You will kindly remain silent, Mr. Barnard.”
“And you’ll cut out the Gestapo act! You’ve been questioning her for two hours now. Can’t you see she’s exhausted?”
“Perhaps it is time you left.”
Guy wasn’t about to back down. “She’s an American. You can’t hold her indefinitely!”
The officer looked at Willy, then at Guy. He gave a nonchalant shrug. “She will be released.”
“When?”
“When she tells the truth.” Turning, he walked out.
“Hang in,” Guy muttered. “We’ll get you out of here yet.” He followed the officer into the next room, slamming the door behind him.
The arguing went on for ten minutes. She could hear them shouting behind the door. At least Guy still had the strength to shout; she could barely hold her head up.
When Guy returned at last, she could see from his look of disgust that he’d gotten nowhere. He dropped wearily onto the bench beside her and rubbed his eyes.
“What do they want from me?” she asked. “Why can’t they just leave me alone?”
“I get the feeling they’re waiting for something. Some sort of approval....”
“Whose?”
“Hell if I know.”
A rolled up newspaper whacked the table. Willy looked over and saw the guard flick away another dead roach. She shuddered.
It was midnight.
At l:00 a.m., Mr. Ainh appeared, looking as sallow as an old bed sheet. Willy was too numb to move from the bench. She simply sat there, propped against Guy’s shoulder, and let the two men do the talking.
“We are very sorry for the inconvenience,” said Ainh, sounding genuinely contrite. “But you must understand—”
“Inconvenience?” Guy snapped. “Ms. Maitland was nearly killed earlier tonight, and she’s been kept here for three hours now. What the hell’s going on?”
“The situation is...unusual. A robbery attempt—on a foreigner, no less—well...” He shrugged helplessly.
Guy was incredulous. “You’re calling this an attempted robbery?”
“What would you call it?”
“A cover-up.”
Ainh shuffled uneasily. Turning, he exchanged a few words in Vietnamese with the guard. Then he gave Willy a polite bow. “The police say you are free to leave, Miss Maitland. On behalf of the Vietnamese government, I apologize for your most unfortunate experience. What happened does not in any way reflect on our high regard and warm feelings for the American people. We hope this will not spoil the remainder of your visit.”
Guy couldn’t help a laugh. “Why should it? It was just a little murder attempt.”
“In the morning,” Ainh went on quickly, “you are free to continue your tour.”
“Subject to what restrictions?” Guy asked.
“No restrictions.” Ainh cleared his throat and made a feeble attempt to smile. “Contrary to your government propaganda, Mr. Barnard, we are a reasonable people. We have nothing to hide.”
To which Guy answered flatly, “Or so it seems.”
* * *
“I don’t get it. First they run you through the wringer. Then they hand you the keys to the country. It doesn’t make sense.”
Willy stared out the taxi window as the streets of Saigon glided past. Here and there, a lantern flickered in the darkness. A noodle vendor huddled on the sidewalk beside his steaming cart. In an open doorway, a beaded curtain shuddered, and in the dim room beyond, sleeping children could be seen, curled up like kittens on their mats.
“Nothing makes sense,” she whispered. “Not this country. Or the people. Or anything that’s happened....”
She was trembling. The horror of everything that had happened that night suddenly burst through the numbing dam of exhaustion. Even Guy’s arm, which had magically materialized around her shoulders, couldn’t keep away the unnamed terrors of the night.
He pulled her against his chest, and only when she inhaled that comfortable smell of fatigue, felt the slow and steady beat of his heart, did her trembling finally stop. He kept whispering, “It’
s all right, Willy. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She felt his kiss, gentle as rain, on her forehead.
When the driver stopped in front of the hotel, Guy had to coax her out of the car. He led her through the nightmarish glare of the lobby. He was the pillar that supported her in the elevator. And it was his arm that guided her down the shadowed walkway and past the air-conditioning vent, now ominously silent. He didn’t even ask her if she wanted his company for the night; he simply opened the door to his room, led her inside and sat her down on his bed. Then he locked the door and slid a chair in front of it.
In the bathroom, he soaked a washcloth with warm water. Then he came back out, sat down beside her on the bed and gently wiped her smudged face. Her cheeks were pale. He had the insane urge to kiss her, to breathe some semblance of life back into her body. He knew she wouldn’t fight him; she didn’t have the strength. But it wouldn’t be right, and he wasn’t the kind of man who’d take advantage of the situation, of her.
“There,” he murmured, brushing back her hair. “All better.”
She stirred and gazed up at him with wide, stunned eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For...” She paused, searching for the right words. “For being here.”
He touched her face. “I’ll be here all night. I won’t leave you alone. If that’s what you want.”
She nodded. It hurt him to see her look so tired, so defeated. She’s getting to me, he thought. This isn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t what I expected.
He could see, from the brightness of her eyes, that she was trying not to cry. He slid his arm around her shoulders.
“You’ll be safe, Willy,” he whispered into the softness of her hair. “You’ll be going home in the morning. Even if I have to strap you into that plane myself, you’ll be going home.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“My father...”
“Forget him. It isn’t worth it.”
“I made a promise....”
“All you promised your mother was an answer. Not a body. Not some official report, stamped and certified. Just a simple answer. So give her one. Tell her he’s dead, tell her he died in the crash. It’s probably the truth.”
“I can’t lie to her.”
“You have to.” He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Willy, someone’s trying to kill you. They’ve flubbed it twice. But what happens the third time? The fourth?”
She shook her head. “I’m not worth killing. I don’t know anything!”
“Maybe it’s not what you know. It’s what you might find out.”
Sniffling, she looked up in bewilderment. “That my father’s dead? Or alive? What difference does it make to anyone?”
He sighed, a sound of overwhelming weariness. “I don’t know. If we could talk to Oliver, find out who he works for—”
“He’s just a kid!”
“Obviously not. He could be sixteen, seventeen. Old enough to be an agent.”
“For the Vietnamese?”
“No. If he was one of theirs, why’d he vanish? Why did the police keep hounding you about him?”
She huddled on the bed, her confusion deepening. “He saved my life. And I don’t even know why.”
There it was again, that raw edge of vulnerability, shimmering in her eyes. She might be Wild Bill Maitland’s brat, but she was also a woman, and Guy was having a hard time concentrating on the problem at hand. Why was someone trying to kill her?
He was too tired to think. It was late, she was so near, and there was the bed, just waiting.
He reached up and gently stroked her face. She seemed to sense immediately what was about to happen. Even though her whole body remained stiff, she didn’t fight him. The instant their lips met, he felt a shock leap through her, through him, as though they’d both been hit by some glorious bolt of lightning. My God, he thought in surprise. You wanted this as much as I did....
He heard her murmur, “No,” against his mouth, but he knew she didn’t mean it, so he went on kissing her until he knew that if he didn’t stop right then and there, he’d do something he really didn’t want to do.
Oh, yes I do, he thought with sudden abandon. I want her more than I’ve wanted any other woman.
She put her hand against his chest and murmured another “No,” this one fainter. He would have ignored it, too, had it not been for the look in her eyes. They were wide and confused, the eyes of a woman pushed to the brink by fear and exhaustion. This wasn’t the way he wanted her. Maddening as she could be, he wanted the living, breathing, real Willy Maitland in his arms.
He released her. They sat on the bed, not speaking for a while, just looking at each other with a shared sense of quiet astonishment.
“Why—why did you do that?” she asked weakly.
“You looked like you needed a kiss.”
“Not from you.”
“From someone, then. It’s been a while since you’ve been kissed. Hasn’t it?”
She didn’t answer, and he knew he’d guessed the truth. Hell, what a waste, he thought, his gaze dropping briefly to that perfect little mouth. He managed a disinterested laugh. “That’s what I thought.”
Willy stared at his grinning face and wondered, Is it so obvious? Not only hadn’t she been kissed in a long time, she hadn’t ever been kissed like that. He knew exactly how to do it; he’d probably had years of practice with other women. For some insane reason, she found herself wondering how she compared, found herself hating every woman he’d ever kissed before her, hating even more every woman he’d kiss after her.
She flung herself down on the bed and turned her back on him. “Oh, leave me alone!” she cried. “I can’t deal with this! I can’t deal with you. I’m tired. I just want to sleep.”
He didn’t say anything. She felt him smooth her hair. It was nothing more than a brush of his fingers, but somehow, that one touch told her that he wouldn’t leave, that he’d be there all night, watching over her. He rose from the bed and switched off the lamp. She lay very still in the darkness, listening to him move around the room. She heard him check the windows, then the door, testing how firmly the chair was wedged against it. Then, apparently satisfied, he went into the bathroom, and she heard water running in the sink.
She was still awake when he came back to bed and stretched out beside her. She lay there, worrying that he’d kiss her again and hoping desperately that he would.
“Guy?” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“I’m scared.”
He reached for her through the darkness. Willingly, she let him pull her against his bare chest. He smelled of soap and safety. Yes, that’s what it was. Safety.
“It’s okay to be scared,” he whispered. “Even if you are Wild Bill Maitland’s kid.”
As if she had a choice, she thought as she lay in his arms. The sad part was, she’d never wanted to be the daughter of a legend. What she’d wanted from Wild Bill wasn’t valor or daring or the reflected glory of a hero.
What she’d wanted most of all was a father.
Siang crouched motionless in a stinking mud puddle and stared up the road at Chantal’s building. Two hours had passed and the man was still there by the curb. Siang could see his vague form huddled in the darkness. A police agent, no doubt, and not a very good one. Was that a snore rumbling in the night? Yes, Siang thought, definitely a snore. How fortunate that surveillance was always relegated to those least able to withstand its monotony.
Siang decided to make his move.
He withdrew his knife. Noiselessly he edged out of the alley and circled around, slipping from shadow to shadow along the row of hootches. Barely five yards from his goal, he froze as the man’s snores shuddered and stopped. The shadow’s
head lifted, shaking off sleep.
Siang closed in, yanked the man’s head up by the hair and slit the throat.
There was no cry, only a gurgle, and then the hiss of a last breath escaping the dead man’s lungs. Siang dragged the body around to the back of the building and rolled it into a drainage ditch. Then he slipped through an open window into Chantal’s flat.
He found her asleep. She awakened instantly as he clapped his hand over her mouth.
“You!” she ground out through his fingers. “Damn you, you got me in trouble!”
“What did you tell the police?”
“Get away from me!”
“What did you tell them?”
She batted away his hand. “I didn’t tell them anything!”
“You’re lying.”
“You think I’m stupid? You think I’d tell them I have friends in the CIA?”
He released her. As she sat up, the silky heat of her breast brushed against his arm. So the old whore still slept naked, he thought with an automatic stirring of desire.
She rose from the bed and pulled on a robe.
“Don’t turn on the lights,” he said.
“There was a man outside—a police agent. What did you do with him?”
“I took care of him.”
“And the body?”
“In the ditch out back.”
“Oh, nice, Siang. Very nice. Now they’ll blame me for that, too.” She struck a match and lit a cigarette. By the flame’s brief glow, he could see her face framed by a tangle of black hair. In the semidarkness she still looked tempting, young and soft and succulent.
The match went out. He asked, “What happened at the police station?”
She let out a slow breath. The smell of exhaled smoke filled the darkness. “They asked about my cousin. They say he’s dead. Is that true?”
“What do they know about me?”
“Is Winn really dead?”
Siang paused. “It couldn’t be helped.”
Chantal laughed. Softly at first, then with wild abandon. “She did that, did she? The American bitch? You cannot finish off even a woman? Oh, Siang, you must be slipping!”
No Reason to Trust Page 11
