No Reason to Trust

by Tess Gerritsen

  She sat up, instantly alert, her heart off and racing. Carrying her shoes, she tiptoed after him to the door.

  The hall was deserted. The scuffed wood floor gleamed dully beneath a bare lightbulb. They slipped out into the corridor and headed for the stairs.

  From the second-floor railing, they peered down into the lobby. The hotel desk was unattended. The sound of snoring echoed like a lion’s roar up the stairwell. As they moved down the steps, the hotel lounge came into view, and they spotted the lobby attendant sprawled out on a couch, mouth gaping in blissful repose.

  Guy flashed Willy a grin and a thumbs-up sign. Then he led the way down the steps and through a service door. Crates lined a dark and dingy hallway; at the far end was another door. They slipped out the exit.

  Outside, the darkness was so thick Willy found herself groping for some tangible clue to her surroundings. Then Guy took her hand and his touch was steadying; it was a hand she’d learned she could trust. Together they crept through the shadows, into the narrow alley behind the hotel. There they waited.

  It was 2:01.

  At 2:07, they sensed, more than heard, a stirring in the darkness. It was as if a breath of wind had congealed into something alive, solid. They didn’t see the woman until she was right beside them.

  “Come with me,” she said. Willy recognized the voice: it was Nora Walker’s.

  They followed her up a series of streets and alleys, weaving farther and farther into the maze that was Hanoi. Nora said nothing. Every so often they caught a glimpse of her in the glow of a street lamp, her hair concealed beneath a conical hat, her dark blouse anonymously shabby.

  At last, in an alley puddled with stagnant water, they came to a halt. Through the darkness, Willy could just make out three bicycles propped against a wall. A bundle was thrust into her hands. It contained a set of pajamalike pants and blouse, a conical hat smelling of fresh straw. Guy, too, was handed a change of clothes.

  In silence they dressed.

  On bicycles they followed Nora through miles of back streets. In that landscape of shadows, everything took on a life of its own. Tree branches reached out to snag them. The road twisted like a serpent. Willy lost all sense of direction; as far as she knew, they could be turning in circles. She pedaled automatically, following the faint outline of Nora’s hat floating ahead in the darkness.

  The paved streets gave way to dirt roads, the buildings to huts and vegetable plots. At last, at the outskirts of town, they dismounted. An old truck sat at the side of the road. Through the driver’s window, a cigarette could be seen glowing in the darkness. The door squealed open, and a Vietnamese man hopped out of the cab. He and Nora whispered together for a moment. Then the man tossed aside the cigarette and gestured to the back of the truck.

  “Get in,” said Nora. “He’ll take you from here.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Willy.

  Nora flipped aside the truck’s tarp and motioned for them to climb in. “No time for questions. Hurry.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?”

  “I can’t. They’ll notice I’m gone.”

  “Who’ll notice?”

  Nora’s voice, already urgent, took on a note of panic. “Please. Get in now.”

  Guy and Willy scrambled onto the rear bumper and dropped down lightly among a pile of rice sacks.

  “Be patient,” said Nora. “It’s a long ride. There’s food and water inside—enough to hold you.”

  “Who’s the driver?” asked Guy.

  “No names. It’s safer.”

  “But can we trust him?”

  Nora paused. “Can we trust anyone?” she said. Then she yanked on the tarp. The canvas fell, closing them off from the night.

  * * *

  It was a long bicycle ride back to her apartment. Nora pedaled swiftly, her body slicing through the night, her hat shuddering in the wind. She knew the way well; even in the darkness she could sense where the hazards, the unexpected potholes, lay.

  Tonight she could also sense something else. A presence, something evil, floating in the night. The feeling was so unshakable she felt compelled to stop and look back at the road. For a full minute she held her breath and waited. Nothing moved, only the shadows of clouds hurtling before the moon. It’s my imagination, she thought. No one was following her. No one could have followed her. She’d been too cautious, taking the Americans up and down so many turns that no one could possibly have kept up unnoticed.

  Breathing easier, she pedaled all the way home.

  She parked her bicycle in the community shed and climbed the rickety steps to her apartment. The door was unlocked. The significance of that fact didn’t strike her until she’d already taken one step over the threshold. By then it was too late.

  The door closed behind her. She spun around just as a light sprang on, shining full in her face. Blinded, she took a panicked step backward. “Who—what—”

  From behind, hands wrenched her into a brutal embrace. A knife blade slid lightly across her neck.

  “Not a word,” whispered a voice in her ear.

  The person holding the light came forward. He was a large man, so large, his shadow blotted out the wall. “We’ve been waiting for you, Miss Walker,” he said. “Where did you take them?”

  She swallowed. “Who?”

  “You went to the hotel to meet them. Where did you go from there?”

  “I didn’t—” She gasped as the blade suddenly stung her flesh; she felt a drop of blood trickle warmly down her neck.

  “Easy, Mr. Siang,” said the man. “We have all night.”

  Nora began to cry. “Please. Please, I don’t know anything....”

  “But, of course, you do. And you’ll tell us, won’t you?” The man pulled up a chair and sat down. She could see his teeth gleaming like ivory in the shadows. “It’s only a question of when.”

  * * *

  From beneath the flapping canvas, Willy caught glimpses of dawn: light filtering through the trees, dust swirling in the road, the green brilliance of rice paddies. They’d been traveling for hours now, and the sacks of rice were beginning to feel like bags of concrete against their backs. At least they’d been provided with food and drink. In an open crate they’d found a bottle of water, a loaf of French bread and four hard-boiled eggs. It seemed sufficient—at first. But as the day wore on and the heat grew suffocating, that single bottle of water became more and more precious. They rationed it, one sip every half hour; it was barely enough to keep their throats moist.

  At noon the truck began to climb.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Heading west, I think. Into the mountains. Maybe the road to Dien Bien Phu.”

  “Towards Laos?”

  “Where your father’s plane went down.” In the shadows of the truck, Guy’s face, dirty and unshaven, was a tired mask of resolution. She wondered if she looked as grim.

  He shrugged off his sweat-soaked shirt and threw it aside, oblivious to the mosquitoes buzzing around them. The scar on his bare abdomen seemed to ripple in the gloom. In silent fascination, Willy started to reach out to him, then thought better of it.

  “It’s okay,” he said softly, guiding her hand to the scar. “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “It must have hurt terribly when you got it.”

  “I don’t remember.” At her puzzled look, he added, “I mean, not on any sort of conscious level. It’s funny, though, how well I remember what happened just before the plane went down. Toby, sitting next to me, telling jokes. Something about the pilot looking like an old buddy of his from Alcoholics Anonymous. He’d heard in flight school that the best military pilots were always the drunks; a sober man wouldn’t dream of flying the sort of junk heap we were in. I remember laughing as we taxied down the runway. Then—” He shook his head. “They say I pulled him out of the wreckage. Tha
t I unbuckled him and dragged him out just before the whole thing blew. They even called me a hero.” He uncapped the water bottle, took a sip. “What a laugh.”

  “Sounds like you earned the label,” she said.

  “Sounds more like I was knocked in the head and didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

  “The best heroes in the world are the reluctant ones. Courage isn’t fearlessness—it’s acting in the face of fear.”

  “Yeah?” He laughed. “Then that makes me the best of the best.” He stiffened as the truck suddenly slowed, halted. A voice barked orders in the distance. They stared at each other in alarm.

  “What is it?” she whispered. “What’re they saying?”

  “Something about a roadblock...soldiers are stopping everyone. Some sort of inspection....”

  “My God. What do we—”

  He put a finger to his lips. “Sounds like a lot of traffic in front. Could take a while before they get to us.”

  “Can we back up? Turn around?”

  He scrambled to the back of the truck and glanced through a slit in the canvas. “No chance. We’re socked in tight. Trucks on both sides.”

  Willy frantically surveyed the gloom, searching for empty burlap bags, a crate, anything large enough in which to hide.

  The soldiers’ voices moved closer.

  We have to make a run for it, thought Willy. Guy had already risen to a crouch. But a glance outside told them they were surrounded by shallow rice paddies. Without cover, their flight would be spotted immediately.

  But they won’t hurt us, she thought. They wouldn’t dare. We’re Americans.

  As if, in this crazy world, an eagle on one’s passport bought any sort of protection.

  The soldiers were right outside—two men by the sound of the voices. The truck driver was trying to cajole his way out of the inspection, laughing, offering cigarettes. The man had to have nerves of steel; not a single note of apprehension slipped into his voice.

  His attempts at bribery failed. Footsteps continued along the graveled roadside, heading for the back of the truck.

  Guy instinctively shoved Willy against the rice sacks, shielding her behind him. He’d be the one they’d see first, the one they’d confront. He turned to face the inevitable.

  A hand poked through, gripping the canvas flap....

  And paused. In the distance, a car horn was blaring. Tires screeched, followed by the thud of metal, the angry shouts of drivers.

  The hand gripping the canvas pulled away. The flap slid shut. There were a few terse words exchanged between the soldiers, then footsteps moved away, crunching up the gravel road.

  It took only seconds for their driver to scramble back into the front seat and hit the gas. The truck lurched forward, throwing Guy off his feet. He toppled, landing right next to Willy on the rice sacks. As their truck roared full speed around the traffic and down the road, they sprawled together, too stunned by their narrow escape to say a word. Suddenly they were both laughing, rolling around on the sacks, giddy with relief.

  Guy hauled her into his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  “What was that for?” she demanded, pulling back in surprise.

  “That,” he whispered, “was pure instinct.”

  “Do you always follow your instincts?”

  “Whenever I can get away with it.”

  “And you really think I’ll let you get away with it?”

  In answer, he gripped her hair, trapping her head against the sacks, and kissed her again, longer, deeper. Pleasure leapt through her, a desire so sudden, so fierce, it left her voiceless.

  “I think,” he murmured, “you want it as much as I do.”

  With a gasp of outrage, she shoved him onto his back and climbed on top of him, pinning him beneath her. “Guy Barnard, you miserable jerk, I’m going to give you what you deserve.”

  He laughed. “Are you now?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And what, exactly, do I deserve?”

  For a moment she stared at him through the dust and gloom. Then, slowly, she lowered her face to his. “This,” she said softly.

  The kiss was different this time. Warmer. Hungrier. She was a full and willing partner; he knew it and he responded. She didn’t need to be warned that she was playing a dangerous game, that they were both hurtling toward the point of no return. She could already feel him swelling beneath her, could feel her own body aching to accommodate that new hardness. And the whole time she was kissing him, the whole time their bodies were pressed together, she was thinking, I’m going to regret this. As sure as I breathe, I’m going to pay for this. But it feels so right....

  She pulled away, fighting to catch her breath.

  “Well!” said Guy, grinning up at her. “Miss Willy Maitland, I am surprised.”

  She sat up, nervously shoving her hair back into place. “I never meant to do that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “It was a stupid thing to do.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “It was...” She looked him in the eye. “Pure instinct.”

  He laughed. In fact, he fell backward laughing, rolling around on the sacks of rice. The truck hit a pothole, bouncing her up and down so hard, she collapsed onto the floor beside him.

  And still he was laughing.

  “You’re a crazy man,” she said.

  He threw an arm around her neck and pulled her warmly against him. “Only about you.”

  * * *

  In a black limousine with tinted windows, Siang sat gripping the steering wheel and cursing the wretched highway—or what this country called a highway. He had never understood why communism and decent roads had to be mutually exclusive. And then there was the traffic, added to the annoyance of that government vehicle inspection. It had given him a moment’s apprehension, the sight of the armed soldiers standing at the roadside. But it took only a few smooth words from the man in the back seat, the wave of a Soviet diplomatic passport, and they were allowed to move on without incident.

  They continued west; a road sign confirmed it was the highway to Dien Bien Phu. A strange omen, Siang thought, that they should be headed for the town where the French had met defeat, where East had triumphed over West. Centuries before, an Asian scribe had written a prophetic statement.

  To the south lie the mountains,

  The land of the Viets.

  He who marches against them

  Is surely doomed to failure.

  Siang glanced in the rearview mirror, at the man in the back seat. He wouldn’t be thinking in terms of East versus West. He cared nothing about nations or motherlands or patriotism. Real power, he’d once told Siang, lay in the hands of individuals, special people who knew how to use it, to keep it, and he was going to keep it.

  Siang had no doubt he would.

  He remembered the day they’d first met in Happy Valley, at an American base the GIs had whimsically dubbed “the Golf Course.” It was 1967. Siang had a different name then. He was a slender boy of thirteen, barefoot, scratching out a hungry existence among all the other orphans. When he’d first seen the American, his initial impression was of hugeness. An enormous fleshy face, alarmingly red in the heat; boots made for a giant; hands that looked strong enough to snap a child’s arm in two. The day was hot, and Siang was selling soft drinks. The man bought a Coca Cola, drank it down in a few gulps and handed the empty bottle back. As Siang took it, he felt the man’s gaze studying him, measuring him. Then the man walked away.

  The next day, and every day for a week, the American emerged from the GI compound to buy a Coca Cola. Though a dozen other children clamored for his business, each waving soft drinks, the man bought only from Siang.

  At the end of the week, the man presented Siang with a brand-new shirt, three tins of corned beef and an astonishing amou
nt of cash. He said he was leaving the valley early the next morning, and he asked the boy to hire the prettiest girl he could find and bring her to him for the night.

  It was only a test, as Siang found out later. He passed it. In fact, the American seemed surprised when Siang appeared at the compound gate that evening with an extraordinarily beautiful girl. Obviously, the man had expected Siang to take the money and vanish.

  To Siang’s astonishment, the man sent the girl away without even touching her. Instead, he asked the boy to stay—not as a lover, as Siang at first feared, but as an assistant. “I need someone I can trust,” the man said. “Someone I can train....”

  Even now, after all these years, Siang still felt that young boy’s sense of awe whenever he looked at the American. He glanced at the rearview mirror, at the face that had changed so little since that day they’d met in Happy Valley. The cheeks might be thicker and ruddier, but the eyes were the same, sharp and all-knowing. Just like the mind. Those eyes almost frightened him.

  Siang turned his attention back to the road. The man in the back seat was humming a tune: “Yankee Doodle.” A whimsical choice, considering the Soviet passport he was carrying. Siang smiled at the irony of it all.

  Nothing about the man was ever quite what it seemed.

  Chapter 11

  It was late in the day when the truck at last pulled to a halt. Willy, half-asleep among the rice sacks, rolled drowsily onto her back and struggled to clear her head. The signals her body was sending gave new meaning to the word misery. Every muscle ached; every bone felt shattered. The truck engine cut off. In the new silence, mosquitoes buzzed in the gloom, a gloom so thick she could scarcely breathe.

  “Are you awake?” came a whisper. Guy’s face, gleaming with sweat, appeared above her.

  “What time is it?”

  “Late afternoon. Five or so. My watch stopped.”

  She sat up and her head swam in the heat. “Where are we?”

  “Can’t be sure. Near the border, I’d guess...” Guy stiffened as footsteps tramped toward them. Men’s voices, speaking Vietnamese, moved closer.