Double Impact: Never Say Die\No Way Back (4 page)

They had him cornered. He took the check and awaited the next contact.

The day before he left Honolulu, this file had arrived special delivery from Washington. Without looking at it, he'd slipped it into his briefcase.

Now he read it for the first time, pausing at the page listing possible identities. Several names he recognized from his stack of MIA files, and it struck him as unfair, this list. These men were missing in action and probably dead; to brand them as possible traitors was an insult to their memories.

One by one, he went over the names of those voiceless pilots suspected of treason. Halfway down the list, he stopped, focusing on the entry “William T. Maitland, pilot, Air America.” Beside it was an asterisk and, below, the footnote: “Refer to File #M-70-4163, Defense Intelligence. (Classified.)”

William T. Maitland,
he thought, trying to remember where he'd heard the name. Maitland, Maitland.

Then he thought of the woman at Kistner's villa, the little blonde with the magnificent legs. I'm here on family
business, she'd said. For that she'd consulted General Joe Kistner, a man whose connections to Defense Intelligence were indisputable.

See you around, Willy Maitland.

It was too much of a coincidence. And yet…

He went back to the first page and reread the file on Friar Tuck, beginning to end. The section on Search Status he read twice. Then he rose from the bed and began to pace the room, considering his options. Not liking any of them.

He didn't believe in using people. But the stakes were sky-high, and they were deeply, intensely personal.
How many men have their own little secrets from the war?
he wondered.
Secrets we can't talk about? Secrets that could destroy us?

He closed the file. The information in this folder wasn't enough; he needed the woman's help.

But am I cold-blooded enough to use her?

Can I afford not to?
whispered the voice of necessity.

It was an awful decision to make. But he had no choice.

 

I
T WAS
5:00
P.M., AND
the Bong Bong Club was not yet in full swing. Up onstage, three women, bodies oiled and gleaming, writhed together like a trio of snakes. Music blared from an old stereo speaker, a relentlessly primitive beat that made the very darkness shudder.

From his favorite corner table, Siang watched the action, the men sipping drinks, the waitresses dangling after tips. Then he focused on the stage, on the girl in the middle. She was special. Lush hips, meaty thighs, a pink, carnivorous tongue. He couldn't define what it was about her eyes, but she had
that look.
The numeral 7 was pinned on her G-string. He would have to inquire later about number seven.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Siang.”

Siang looked up to see the man standing in the shadows. It never failed to impress him, the size of that man. Even now, twenty years after their first meeting, Siang could not help feeling he was a child in the presence of this giant.

The man ordered a beer and sat down at the table. He watched the stage for a moment. “A new act?” he asked.

“The one in the middle is new.”

“Ah, yes, very nice. Your type, is she?”

“I will have to find out.” Siang took a sip of whiskey, his gaze never leaving the stage. “You said you had a job for me.”

“A small matter.”

“I hope that does not mean a small reward.”

The man laughed softly. “No, no. Have I ever been less than generous?”

“What is the name?”

“A woman.” The man slid a photograph onto the table. “Her name is Willy Maitland. Thirty-two years old. Five foot two, dark blond hair cut short, gray eyes. Staying at the Oriental Hotel.”

“American?”

“Yes.”

Siang paused. “An unusual request.”

“There is some…urgency.”

Ah. The price goes up,
thought Siang. “Why?” he asked.

“She departs for Saigon tomorrow morning. That leaves you only tonight.”

Siang nodded and looked back at the stage. He was pleased to see that the girl in the middle, number seven, was looking straight at him. “That should be time enough,” he said.

 

W
ILLY
M
AITLAND WAS
standing at the river's edge, staring down at the swirling water.

From across the dining terrace, Guy spotted her, a tiny figure leaning at the railing, her short hair fluffing in the wind. From the hunch of her shoulders, the determined focus of her gaze, he got the impression she wanted to be left alone. Stopping at the bar, he picked up a beer—Oranjeboom, a good Dutch brand he hadn't tasted in years. He stood there a moment, watching her, savoring the touch of the frosty bottle against his cheek.

She still hadn't moved. She just kept gazing down at the river, as though hypnotized by something she saw in the muddy depths. He moved across the terrace toward her, weaving past empty tables and chairs, and eased up beside her at the railing. He marveled at the way her hair seemed to reflect the red and gold sparks of sunset.

“Nice view,” he said.

She glanced at him. One look, utterly uninterested, was all she gave him. Then she turned away.

He set his beer on the railing. “Thought I'd check back with you. See if you'd changed your mind about that drink.”

She stared stubbornly at the water.

“I know how it is in a foreign city. No one to share your frustrations. I thought you might be feeling a little—”

“Give me a break,” she said, and walked away.

He must be losing his touch, he thought. He snatched up his beer and followed her. Pointedly ignoring him, she strolled along the edge of the terrace, every so often flicking her hair off her face. She had a cute swing to her walk, just a little too frisky to be considered graceful.

“I think we should have dinner,” he said, keeping pace. “And maybe a little conversation.”

“About what?”

“Oh, we could start off with the weather. Move on to politics. Religion. My family, your family.”

“I assume this is all leading up to something?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Let me guess. An invitation to your room?”

“Is that what you think I'm trying to do?” he asked in a hurt voice. “Pick you up?”

“Aren't you?” she said. Then she turned and once again walked away.

This time he didn't follow her. He didn't see the point. Leaning back against the rail, he sipped his beer and watched her climb the steps to the dining terrace. There, she sat down at a table and retreated behind a menu. It was too late for tea and too early for supper. Except for a dozen boisterous Italians sitting at a nearby table, the terrace was empty. He lingered there a while, finishing off the beer, wondering what his next approach should be. Wondering if anything would work. She was a tough nut to crack, surprisingly fierce for a dame who barely came up to his shoulder. A mouse with teeth.

He needed another beer. And a new strategy. He'd think of it in a minute.

He headed up the steps, back to the bar. As he crossed the dining terrace, he couldn't help a backward glance at the woman. Those few seconds of inattention almost caused him to collide with a well-dressed Thai man moving in the opposite direction. Guy murmured an automatic apology. The other man didn't answer; he walked right on past, his gaze fixed on something ahead.

Guy took about two steps before some inner alarm went off in his head. It was pure instinct, the soldier's premonition of disaster. It had to do with the eyes of the man who'd just passed by.

He'd seen that look of deadly calm once before, in the
eyes of a Vietnamese. They had brushed shoulders as Guy was leaving a popular Da Nang nightclub. For a split second their gazes had locked. Even now, years later, Guy still remembered the chill he'd felt looking into that man's eyes. Two minutes later, as Guy had stood waiting in the street for his buddies, a bomb ripped apart the building. Seventeen Americans had been killed.

Now, with a growing sense of alarm, he watched the Thai stop and survey his surroundings. The man seemed to spot what he was looking for and headed toward the dining terrace. Only two of the tables were occupied. The Italians sat at one, Willy Maitland at the other. At the edge of the terrace, the Thai paused and reached into his jacket.

Reflexively, Guy took a few steps forward. Even before his eyes registered the danger, his body was already reacting. Something glittered in the man's hand, an object that caught the bloodred glare of sunset. Only then could Guy rationally acknowledge what his instincts had warned him was about to happen.

He screamed, “Willy! Watch out!”

Then he launched himself at the assassin.

A
T THE SOUND
of the man's shout, Willy lowered her menu and turned. To her amazement, she saw it was the crazy American, toppling chairs as he barreled across the cocktail lounge. What was that lunatic up to now?

In disbelief, she watched him shove past a waiter and fling himself at another man, a well-dressed Thai. The two bodies collided. At the same instant, she heard something hiss through the air, felt an unexpected flick of pain in her arm. She leapt up from her chair as the two men slammed to the ground near her feet.

At the next table, the Italians were also out of their chairs, pointing and shouting. The bodies on the ground rolled over and over, toppling tables, sending sugar bowls crashing to the stone terrace. Willy was lost in utter confusion. What was happening? Why was that idiot fighting with a Thai businessman?

Both men staggered to their feet. The Thai kicked high, his heel thudding squarely into the other man's belly. The American doubled over, groaned and landed with his back propped up against the terrace wall.

The Thai vanished.

By now the Italians were hysterical.

Willy scrambled through the fallen chairs and shattered crockery and crouched at the man's side. Already a bruise the size of a golf ball had swollen his cheek. Blood trickled
alarmingly from his torn lip. “Are you all right?” she cried.

He touched his cheek and winced. “I've probably looked worse.”

She glanced around at the toppled furniture. “Look at this mess! I hope you have a good explanation for— What are you doing?” she demanded as he suddenly gripped her arm. “Get your hands off me!”

“You're bleeding!”

“What?” She followed the direction of his gaze and saw that a shocking blotch of red soaked her sleeve. Droplets splattered to the flagstones.

Her reaction was immediate and visceral. She swayed dizzily and sat down smack on the ground, right beside him. Through a cottony haze, she felt her head being shoved down to her knees, heard her sleeve being ripped open. Hands probed gently at her arm.

“Easy,” he murmured. “It's not bad. You'll need a few stitches, that's all. Just breathe slowly.”

“Get your hands off me,” she mumbled. But the instant she raised her head, the whole terrace seemed to swim. She caught a watery view of mass confusion. The Italians chattering and shaking their heads. The waiters staring openmouthed in horror. And the American watching her with a look of worry. She focused on his eyes. Dazed as she was, she registered the fact that those eyes were warm and steady.

By now the hotel manager, an effete Englishman wearing an immaculate suit and an appalled expression, had appeared. The waiters pointed accusingly at Guy. The manager kept clucking and shaking his head as he surveyed the damage.

“This is dreadful,” he murmured. “This sort of behavior is simply not tolerated. Not on
my
terrace. Are you a
guest? You're not?” He turned to one of the waiters. “Call the police. I want this man arrested.”

“Are you all blind?” yelled Guy. “Didn't any of you see he was trying to kill her?”

“What? What? Who?”

Guy poked around in the broken crockery and fished out the knife. “Not your usual cutlery,” he said, holding up the deadly looking weapon. The handle was ebony, inlaid with mother of pearl. The blade was razor sharp. “This one's designed to be thrown.”

“Oh, rubbish,” sputtered the Englishman.

“Take a look at her arm!”

The manager turned his gaze to Willy's blood-soaked sleeve. Horrified, he took a stumbling step back. “Good God. I'll—I'll call a doctor.”

“Never mind,” said Guy, sweeping Willy off the ground. “It'll be faster if I take her straight to the hospital.”

Willy let herself be gathered into Guy's arms. She found his scent strangely reassuring, a distinctly male mingling of sweat and after-shave. As he carried her across the terrace, she caught a swirling view of shocked waiters and curious hotel guests.

“This is embarrassing,” she complained. “I'm all right. Put me down.”

“You'll faint.”

“I've never fainted in my life!”

“It's not a good time to start.” He got her into a waiting taxi, where she curled up in the back seat like a wounded animal.

The emergency-room doctor didn't believe in anesthesia. Willy didn't believe in screaming. As the curved suture needle stabbed again and again into her arm, she clenched her teeth and longed to have the lunatic American hold
her hand. If only she hadn't played tough and sent him out to the waiting area. Even now, as she fought back tears of pain, she refused to admit, even to herself, that she needed any man to hold her hand. Still, it would have been nice. It would have been wonderful.

And I still don't know his name.

The doctor, whom she suspected of harboring sadistic tendencies, took the final stitch, tied it off and snipped the silk thread. “You see?” he said cheerfully. “That wasn't so bad.”

She felt like slugging him in the mouth and saying,
You see? That wasn't so bad, either.

He dressed the wound with gauze and tape, then gave her a cheerful slap—on her wounded arm, of course—and sent her out into the waiting room.

He
was still there, loitering by the reception desk. With all his bruises and cuts, he looked like a bum who'd wandered in off the street. But the look he gave her was warm and concerned. “How's the arm?” he asked.

Gingerly she touched her shoulder. “Doesn't this country believe in Novocaine?”

“Only for wimps,” he observed. “Which you obviously aren't.”

Outside, the night was steaming. There were no taxis available, so they hired a
tuk-tuk,
a motorcycle-powered rickshaw, driven by a toothless Thai.

“You never told me your name,” she said over the roar of the engine.

“I didn't think you were interested.”

“Is that my cue to get down on my knees and beg for an introduction?”

Grinning, he held out his hand. “Guy Barnard. Now do I get to hear what the Willy's short for?”

She shook his hand. “Wilone.”

“Unusual. Nice.”

“Short of Wilhelmina, it's as close as a daughter can get to being William Maitland, Jr.”

He didn't comment, but she saw an odd flicker in his eyes, a look of sudden interest. She wondered why. The
tuk-tuk
puttered past a
klong,
its stagnant waters shimmering under the streetlights.

“Maitland,” he said casually. “Now that's a name I seem to remember from the war. There was a pilot, a guy named Wild Bill Maitland. Flew for Air America. Any relation?”

She looked away. “Just my father.”

“No kidding! You're Wild Bill Maitland's kid?”

“You've heard the stories about him, have you?”

“Who hasn't? He was a living legend. Right up there with Earthquake Magoon.”

“That's about what he was to me, too,” she muttered. “Nothing but a legend.”

There was a pause in their exchange, and she wondered if Guy Barnard was shocked by the bitterness in her last statement. If so, he didn't show it.

“I never actually met your old man,” he said. “But I saw him once, on the Da Nang airstrip. I was working ground crew.”

“With Air America?”

“No. Army Air Cav.” He sketched a careless salute. “Private First Class Barnard. You know, the real scum of the earth.”

“I see you've come up in the world.”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “Anyway, your old man brought in a C-46, engine smoking, fuel zilch, fuselage so shot up you could almost see right through her. He sets her down on the tarmac, pretty as you please. Then he climbs out and checks out all the bullet holes. Any other pilot
would've been down on his knees kissing the ground. But your dad, he just shrugs, goes over to a tree and takes a nap.” Guy shook his head. “Your old man was something else.”

“So everyone tells me.” Willy shoved a hank of wind-blown hair off her face and wished he'd stop talking about her father. That's how it'd been, as far back as she could remember. When she was a child in Vientiane, at every dinner party, every cocktail gathering, the pilots would invariably trot out another Wild Bill story. They'd raise toasts to his nerves, his daring, his crazy humor, until she was ready to scream. All those stories only emphasized how unimportant she and her mother were in the scheme of her father's life.

Maybe that's why Guy Barnard was starting to annoy her.

But it was more than just his talk about Bill Maitland. In some odd, indefinable way, Guy reminded her too much of her father.

The
tuk-tuk
suddenly hit a bump in the road, throwing her against Guy's shoulder. Pain sliced through her arm and her whole body seemed to clench in a spasm.

He glanced at her, alarmed. “Are you all right?”

“I'm—” She bit her lip, fighting back tears. “It's really starting to hurt.”

He yelled at the driver to slow down. Then he took Willy's hand and held it tightly. “Just a little while longer. We're almost there….”

It was a long ride to the hotel.

Up in her room, Guy sat her down on the bed and gently stroked the hair off her face. “Do you have any pain killers?”

“There's—there's some aspirin in the bathroom.” She started to rise to her feet. “I can get it.”

“No. You stay right where you are.” He went into the bathroom, came back out with a glass of water and the bottle of aspirin. Even through her cloud of pain, she was intensely aware of him watching her, studying her as she swallowed the tablets. Yet she found his nearness strangely reassuring. When he turned and crossed the room, the sudden distance between them left her feeling abandoned.

She watched him rummage around in the tiny refrigerator. “What are you looking for?”

“Found it.” He came back with a cocktail bottle of whiskey, which he uncapped and handed to her. “Liquid anesthesia. It's an old-fashioned remedy, but it works.”

“I don't like whiskey.”

“You don't have to like it. By definition, medicine's not supposed to taste good.”

She managed a gulp. It burned all the way down her throat. “Thanks,” she muttered. “I think.”

He began to walk a slow circle, surveying the plush furnishings, the expansive view. Sliding glass doors opened onto a balcony. From the Chaophya River flowing just below came the growl of motorboats plying the waters. He wandered over to the nightstand, picked up a rambutan from the complimentary fruit basket and peeled off the prickly shell. “Nice room,” he said, thoughtfully chewing the fruit. “Sure beats my dive—the Liberty Hotel. What do you do for a living, anyway?”

She took another sip of whiskey and coughed. “I'm a pilot.”

“Just like your old man?”

“Not exactly. I fly for the paycheck, not the excitement. Not that the pay's great. No money in flying cargo.”

“Can't be too bad if you're staying here.”

“I'm not paying for this.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Who is?”

“My mother.”

“Generous of her.”

His note of cynicism irritated her. What right did he have to insult her? Here he was, this battered vagabond, eating
her
fruit, enjoying
her
view. The
tuk-tuk
ride had tossed his hair in all directions, and his bruised eye was swollen practically shut. Why was she even putting up with this jerk?

He was watching her with curiosity. “So what else is Mama paying for?” he asked.

She looked him hard in the eye. “Her own funeral arrangements,” she said, and was satisfied to see his smirk instantly vanish.

“What do you mean? Is your mother dead?”

“No, but she's dying.” Willy gazed out the window at the lantern lights along the river's edge. For a moment they seemed to dance like fireflies in a watery haze. She swallowed; the lights came back into focus. “God,” she sighed, wearily running her fingers through her hair. “What the hell am I doing here?”

“I take it this isn't a vacation.”

“You got that right.”

“What is it, then?”

“A wild-goose chase.” She swallowed the rest of the whiskey and set the tiny bottle down on the nightstand. “But it's Mom's last wish. And you're always supposed to grant people their dying wish.” She looked at Guy. “Aren't you?”

He sank into a chair, his gaze locked on her face. “You told me before that you were here on family business. Does it have to do with your father?”

She nodded.

“And that's why you saw Kistner today?”

“We were hoping—I was hoping—that he'd be able to fill us in about what happened to Dad.”

“Why go to Kistner? Casualty resolution isn't his job.”

“But Military Intelligence is. In 1970, Kistner was stationed in Laos. He was the one who commissioned my father's last flight. And after the plane went down, he directed the search. What there was of a search.”

“And did Kistner tell you anything new?”

“Only what I expected to hear. That after twenty years, there's no point pursuing the matter. That my father's dead. And there's no way to recover his remains.”

“It must've been tough hearing that. Knowing you've come all this way for nothing.”

“It'll be hard on my mother.”

“And not on you?”

“Not really.” She rose from the bed and wandered out onto the balcony, where she stared down at the water. “You see, I don't give a damn about my father.”

The night was heavy with the smells of the river. She knew Guy was watching her; she could feel his gaze on her back, could imagine the shocked expression on his face. Of course, he would be shocked; it was appalling, what she'd just said. But it was also the truth.