No Reason to Trust

by Tess Gerritsen

  Guy climbed in and slammed the door. “Where are we going?”

  “It is a long drive.” Andersen threw the jeep into gear and spun them around onto a dirt track. “Be patient.”

  The night’s rainfall had turned the path to muck, and on either side the jungle pressed in, close and strangling. They might have gone for miles or tens of miles; on a road locked in by jungle, distance was impossible to judge. When Andersen finally pulled off to the side, Guy could see no obvious reason for stopping. Only when he’d climbed out and stood among the trees did he notice the tiny footpath leading into the bush. He couldn’t see what lay beyond; the forest hid everything from view.

  “From here we walk,” said Andersen, foraging around for a few loose branches.

  “Why the camouflage?” asked Guy, watching Andersen drape the branches over the jeep.

  “Protection for the village.”

  “What are they afraid of?”

  Andersen reached under the tarp on the back seat and pulled out an AK-47. Casually, he slung it over his shoulder. “Everything,” he said, and headed off into the jungle.

  The footpath led into a shadowy world of hundred-foot trees and tangled vines. Watching Andersen’s back, Guy was struck by the irony of a doctor lugging an automatic rifle. He wondered what enemy he planned to use it on.

  The smells of rotting vegetation, of mud simmering in the heat were only too familiar. “The whole damn jungle smells of death,” the GIs used to say. Guy felt his gait change to a silent glide, felt his reflexes kick into overdrive. His five senses were painfully acute; the snap of a branch under Andersen’s boot was as shocking as gunfire.

  He heard the sounds of the village before he saw it. Somewhere deep in the forest, children were laughing. And then he heard water rushing and the cry of a baby.

  Andersen pushed ahead, and as the last curtain of branches parted, Guy saw, beneath a towering stand of trees, the circle of huts. In the central courtyard, children batted a pebble back and forth with their feet. They froze as Guy and Andersen emerged from the forest. One of the girls called out; instantly, a dozen adults emerged from the huts. In silence they all watched Guy.

  Then, in the doorway of one hut, a familiar figure appeared. As Willy came toward Guy, he had the sudden desire to take her in his arms and kiss her right then and there, in view of the whole village, the whole world. But he couldn’t seem to move. He could only stare down at her smiling face.

  “I found him,” Willy said.

  He shook his head. “What?”

  “My father. He’s here.”

  Guy turned and saw that someone else had emerged from the hut. A man without ears, without eyebrows. The horrifying apparition held out its hand; a fingertip was missing.

  William Maitland smiled. “Welcome to Na Co, Mr. Barnard.”

  * * *

  Dr. Andersen’s jeep was easy to spot, even through the camouflage. How fortunate the rains had been so heavy the night before; without all that mud, Siang would never have been able to track the jeep to this trail head.

  He threw aside the branches and quickly surveyed the jeep’s interior. On the back seat, beneath a green canvas tarp, was a jug of drinking water, a few old tools and a weathered notebook, obviously a journal, filled with scribbling. The name “Dr. Gunnel Andersen” was written inside the front cover.

  Siang left the jeep, tramped a few paces into the jungle and peered through the shadows. It took only a moment to spot the footprints. Two men. Dr. Andersen and who else? Barnard? He followed the tracks a short way and saw that, just beyond the first few trees, the footprints led to a distinct trail, no doubt an old and established path. The village of Na Co must lie farther ahead.

  He returned to the limousine where the man was waiting. “They have gone into the forest,” Siang said. “There’s a village trail.”

  “Is it the right one?”

  Siang shrugged. “There are many villages in these mountains. But the jeep belongs to Dr. Andersen.”

  “Then it’s the right village.” The man sat back, satisfied. “I want our people here tonight.”

  “So soon?”

  “It’s the way I work. In and out. The men are ready.”

  In fact the mercenary team had been waiting two days for the signal. They’d been assembled in Thailand, fifteen men equipped with the most sophisticated in small arms. As soon as the order went through, they would be on their way, no questions asked.

  “Tell them we need the dogs as well,” said the man. “For mopping up. The whole village goes.”

  Siang paused. “The children?”

  “One mustn’t leave orphans.”

  This troubled Siang a little, but he said nothing. He knew better than to argue with the voice of necessity. Or power.

  “Is there a radio in the jeep?” asked the man.

  “Yes,” said Siang.

  “Rip it out.”

  “Andersen will see—”

  “Andersen will see nothing.”

  Siang nodded in instant understanding.

  The man drove off in the limousine, headed for a rendezvous spot a mile ahead. Siang waited until the car had disappeared, then he trotted back to the jeep, ripped out the wires connecting the radio and smashed the panel for good measure. He found a cool spot beneath a tree and sat down. Closing his eyes, he summoned forth the strength needed for his task.

  Soon he would have assistance. By tonight, the well paid team of mercenaries would stand assembled on this road. He wouldn’t allow himself to think of the victims—the women, the children. It was a consequence of war. In every skirmish, there were the innocent casualties. He’d learned to accept it, to shrug it off as inevitable. The act of pulling a trigger required a clear head swept free of emotions. It was, after all, the way of battle.

  It was the way of success.

  “Does she understand the danger?” asked Maitland.

  “I don’t know.” Guy stood in the doorway and gazed out at the leaf-strewn courtyard where the village kids were mobbing Willy, singing out questions. The wonderful bedlam of children, he thought wistfully. He turned and looked at the mass of scars that was Bill Maitland’s face. “I’m not sure I understand the danger.”

  “She said things have been happening.”

  “Things? More like dead bodies falling left and right of us. We’ve been followed every—”

  “Who’s been following you?”

  “The local police. Maybe others.”

  “The Company?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t come and introduce themselves.”

  Maitland, suddenly agitated, began to pace the hut. “If they’ve traced you here...”

  “Who’re you hiding from? The Company? The local police?”

  “To name a few.”

  “Which is it?”

  “Everyone.”

  “That narrows it down.”

  Maitland sat down on the sleeping pallet and rested his head in his hands. “I wanted to be left alone. That’s all. Just left alone.”

  Guy gazed at that scarred scalp and wondered why he felt no pity. Surely the man deserved at least a little pity. But at that instant, all Guy felt was irritation that Maitland was thinking only of himself. Willy had a right to a better father, he thought.

  “Your daughter’s already found you,” he said. “You can’t change that. You can’t shove her back into the past.”

  “I don’t want to. I’m glad she found me!”

  “Yet you never bothered to tell her you were alive.”

  “I couldn’t.” Maitland looked up, his eyes full of pain. “There were lives at stake, people I had to protect. Lan, the children—”

  “Who’s going to hurt them?” Guy moved in, confronted him. “It’s been twenty years, and you’re still scared. Why? What kind of business were you in
?”

  “I was just a pawn—I flew the planes, that’s all. I never gave a damn about the cargo!”

  “What was the cargo? Drugs? Arms?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Which?”

  “Both.”

  Guy’s voice hardened. “And which side took delivery?”

  Maitland sat up sharply. “I never did business with the enemy! I only followed orders!”

  “What were your orders on that last flight?”

  “To deliver a passenger.”

  “Interesting cargo. Who was he?”

  “His name didn’t show up on the manifest. I figured he was some Lao VIP. As it turned out, he was marked for death.” He swallowed. “It wasn’t the enemy fire that brought us down. A bomb went off in our hold. Planted by our side. We were meant to die.”

  “Why?”

  There was a long silence. At last, Maitland rose and went to the doorway. There he stared out at the circle of huts. “I think it’s time we talked to the elders.”

  “What can they tell me?”

  Maitland turned and looked at him. “Everything.”

  * * *

  Lan’s baby was crying in a corner of the hut. She put it to her breast and rocked back and forth, cooing, yet all the time listening intently to the voices whispering in the shadows.

  They were all listening—the children, the families. Willy couldn’t understand what was being said, but she could tell the discussion held a frightening significance.

  In the center of the hut sat three village elders—two men and a woman—their ancient faces veiled in a swirl of smoke from the joss sticks. The woman puffed on a cigarette as she muttered in Vietnamese. She gestured toward the sky, then to Maitland.

  Guy whispered to Willy. “She’s saying it wasn’t your father’s time to die. But the other two men, the American and the Lao, they died because that was the death they were fated all their lives to meet....” He fell silent, mesmerized by the old woman’s voice. The sound seemed to drift like incense smoke, curling in the shadows.

  One of the old men spoke, his voice so soft, it was almost lost in the shifting and whispers of the audience.

  “He disagrees,” said Guy. “He says it wasn’t fate that killed the Lao.”

  The old woman vehemently shook her head. Now there was a general debate about why the Lao had really died. The dissenting old man at last rose and shuffled to a far corner of the hut. There he pulled aside the matting that covered the earthen floor, brushed aside a layer of dirt and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle. With shaking hands he pulled apart the ragged edges. Reverently, he held out the object within.

  Even in the gloom of the hut, the sheen of gold was unmistakable.

  “It’s the medallion,” whispered Willy. “The one Lassiter told us about.”

  “The Lao was wearing it,” said her father.

  The old man handed the bundle to Guy. Gingerly, Guy lifted the medallion from its bed of worn cloth. Though the surface was marred by slag from the explosion, the design was still discernable: a three-headed dragon, fangs bared, claws poised for battle.

  The old man whispered words of awe and wonder.

  “He saw a medallion just like it once before,” said Maitland. “Years ago, in Laos. It was hanging around the neck of Prince Souvanna.”

  Guy took in a sharp breath. “It’s the royal crest. That passenger—”

  “Was the king’s half brother,” said Maitland. “Prince Lo Van.”

  An uneasy murmur rippled through the gathering.

  “I don’t understand,” said Willy. “Why would the Company want him dead?”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Guy. “Lo Van was a neutral, shifting to our side. And he was straight-arrow, a clean leader. With our backing, he could’ve carved us a foothold in Laos. That might have tipped the scales in our favor.”

  “That’s what he was meant to do,” said Maitland. “That crate of gold was his. To be dropped in Laos.”

  “To buy an army?” asked Willy.

  “Exactly.”

  “Then why assassinate him? He was on our side, so—”

  “But the guys who blew up the plane weren’t,” said Guy.

  “You mean the Communists planted that bomb?”

  “No, someone more dangerous. One of ours.”

  The elders had fallen silent. They were watching their guests, studying them the way a teacher watches a pupil struggle for answers.

  Once again the old woman began to speak. Maitland translated.

  “‘During the war, some of us lived with the Pathet Lao, the Communists in Laos. There were few places to hide, so we slept in caves. But we had gardens and chickens and pigs, everything we needed to survive. Once, when I was new to the cave, I heard a plane. I thought it was the enemy, the Americans, and I took my rifle and went out to shoot it down. But my cell commander stopped me. I could not understand why he let the plane land. It had enemy markings, the American flag. Our cell commander ordered us to unload the plane. We carried off crates of guns and ammunition. Then we loaded the plane with opium, bags and bags of it. An exchange of goods, I thought. This must be a stolen plane. But then the pilot stepped out, and I saw his face. He was neither Lao nor Vietnamese. He was like you. An American.’”

  “Friar Tuck,” said Guy softly.

  The woman looked at them, her eyes dark and unreadable.

  “I’ve seen him, too,” said Maitland. “I was being held in a camp just west of here when he landed to make an exchange. I tell you, the whole damn country was an opium factory, money being made left and right on both sides. All under cover of war. I think that’s why Lo Van was killed. To keep the place in turmoil. There’s nothing like a dirty war to hide your profits.”

  “Who else has seen the pilot’s face?” Guy asked in Vietnamese, looking around the room. “Who else remembers what he looked like?”

  A man and a woman, huddled in a corner, slowly raised their hands. Perhaps there were others, too timid to reveal themselves.

  “There were four other POWs in that camp with me,” said Maitland. “They saw the pilot’s face. As far as I know, not a single one made it home alive.”

  The joss sticks had burned down to ashes, but the smoke still hung in the gloom. No one made a sound, not even the children.

  That’s why you’re afraid, thought Willy, gazing at the circle of faces. Even now, after all these years, the war casts its shadow over your lives.

  And mine.

  * * *

  “Come back with us, Maitland,” said Guy. “Tell your story. It’s the only way to put it behind you. To be free.”

  Maitland stood in the doorway of his hut, staring out at the children playing in the courtyard.

  “Guy’s right,” said Willy. “You can’t spend your life in hiding. It’s time to end it.”

  Her father turned and looked at her. “What about Lan? The children? If I leave, how do I know the Vietnamese will ever let me back into the country?”

  “It’s a risk you have to take,” said Guy.

  “Be a hero—is that what you’re telling me?” Maitland shook his head. “Let me tell you something, Barnard. The real heroes of this world aren’t the guys who go out and take stupid risks. No, they’re the ones who hang in where they’re needed, where they belong. Maybe life gets a little dull. Maybe the wife and kids drive ’em crazy. But they hang in.” He looked meaningfully at Willy, then back at Guy. “Believe me. I’ve made enough mistakes to know.”

  Maitland looked back at his daughter. “Tonight, you both go back to Hanoi. You’ve got to go home, get on with your own life, Willy.”

  “If she gets home,” said Guy.

  Maitland was silent.

  “What do you think her chances are?” Guy pressed him mercilessly. “Think about it. You suppose they’ll leave
her alone knowing what she knows? You think they’ll let her live?”

  “So call me a coward!” Maitland blurted out. “Call me any damn name you please. It won’t change things. I can’t leave this time.” He fled the hut.

  Through the doorway, they saw him cross the courtyard to where Lan now sat beneath the trees. Lan smiled and handed their baby to her husband. For a long time he sat there, rocking his daughter, holding her tightly to his chest, as though he feared someone might wrench her from his grasp.

  You have the world right there in your arms, Willy thought, watching him. You’d be crazy to let it go.

  “We have to change his mind,” said Guy. “We have to get him to come back with us.”

  At that instant Lan looked up, and her gaze met Willy’s. “He’s not coming back, Guy,” Willy said. “He belongs here.”

  “You’re his family, too,” Guy protested.

  “But not the one who needs him now.” She leaned her head in the doorway. A leaf fluttered down from the trees and tumbled across the courtyard. A bare-bottomed baby toddled after it. “For twenty years I’ve hated that man....” She sighed. And then she smiled. “I guess it’s time I finally grew up.”

  “Something’s wrong. Andersen should’ve been back by now.”

  Maitland stood at the edge of the jungle and peered up the dirt road. From where the doctor’s jeep had been parked, tire tracks led northward. The branches he’d used for camouflage lay scattered at the roadside. But there was no sign of a vehicle.

  Willy and Guy wandered onto the road, where they stood puzzling over Andersen’s delay.

  “He knows you’re waiting for him,” said Maitland. “He’s already an hour late.”

  Guy kicked a pebble and watched it skitter into the bushes. “Looks like we’re not going back to Hanoi tonight. Not without a ride.” He glanced up at the darkening sky. “It’s almost sunset. I think it’s time to head back to the village.”

  Maitland didn’t move. He was still staring up the road.

  “He might have a flat tire,” said Willy. “Or he ran out of gas. Either way, Dad, it looks like you’re stuck with us tonight.” She reached out and threaded her arm in his. “Guy’s right. It’s time to go back.”