Double Impact: Never Say Die\No Way Back (15 page)

“Look who's talking.”

“I'm not in this for thrills. I'm in it because I had to be. Because I didn't have a choice.”

“Neither of us has a choice!” She turned away, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. He was standing so close it made her neck ache to look up at him.

“Stay in Saigon,” he said.

“You must really want me out of the way.”

“I want you safe.”

“Why?”

“Because I— You—” He stopped. They were staring at each other, both of them breathing so hard neither of them could speak. Without another word he hauled her into his arms.

It was just a kiss, but it hit her with such hurricane force that her legs seemed to wobble away into oblivion. He was all rough edges—stubbled jaw and callused hands and frayed shirt. Automatically, she reached up and her arms closed behind his neck, pulling him hard against her mouth. He needed no encouragement. As his body pressed into hers, those dream images reignited in her head: the swaying deck of a ship, the night sky, Guy's face hovering above hers. If she let it, it would happen here, now. Already he was nudging her toward the bed, and she knew that if they fell across that mattress, he'd take her and she'd let him, and that was that. Never mind what made sense, what was good for her. She wanted him.

Even if it's the worst mistake I'll ever make in my life?

The thump of her legs against the side of the bed jarred her back to reality. She twisted away, pushed him to arm's length.

“That wasn't supposed to happen!” she said.

“I think it was.”

“We got our wires crossed and—”

“No,” he said softly. “I'd say our wires connected just fine.”

She crossed to the door and yanked it open. “I think you should get out.”

“I'm not going.”

“You're not staying.”

But his stance, feet planted like tree roots, told her he
most certainly
was
staying. “Have you forgotten? Someone wants you dead.”

“But
you're
the one who's threatening me.”

“It was just a kiss. Has it been
that
long, Willy? Does it shake you up that much, just being kissed?”

Yes it does!
she wanted to scream.
It shakes me up because I've never been kissed that way before!

“I'm staying tonight,” he said quietly. “You need me. And, I admit it, I need you. You're my link to Bill Maitland. I won't touch you, if that's what you want. But I won't leave, either.”

She had to concede defeat. Nothing she could do or say would make him budge. She let the door swing shut. Then she went to the bed and sat down. “God, I'm tired,” she said. “Too tired to fight you. I'm even too tired to be afraid.”

“And that's when things get dangerous. When all the adrenaline's used up. When you're too exhausted to think straight.”

“I give up.” She collapsed onto the bed, feeling as if every bone in her body had suddenly dissolved. “I don't care what happens anymore. I just want to go to sleep.”

He didn't have to say anything; they both knew the debate was over and she'd lost. The truth was, she was glad he was there. It felt so good to close her eyes, to have someone watching over her. She realized how muddled her thinking had become, that she now considered a man like Guy Barnard
safe.

But safe was what she felt.

Standing by the bed, Guy watched her fall asleep. She looked so fragile, stretched out on the bedcovers like a paper doll.

She hadn't felt like paper in his arms. She'd been real flesh and blood, warm and soft, all the woman he could
ever want. He wasn't sure just what he felt toward her. Some of it was good old-fashioned lust. But there was something more, a primitive male instinct that made him want to carry her off to a place where no one could hurt her.

He turned and looked out the window. The two police agents were still loitering near the stairwell; he could see their cigarettes glowing in the darkness. He only hoped they did their job tonight, because he had already crossed his threshold of exhaustion.

He sat down in a chair and tried to sleep.

Twenty minutes later, his whole body crying out for rest, he gave up and went to the bed. Willy didn't stir. What the hell, he thought, She'll never notice. He stretched out beside her. The shifting mattress seemed to rouse her; she moaned and turned toward him, curling up like a kitten against his chest. The sweet scent of her hair made him feel like a drunken man. Dangerous, dangerous.

He'd been better off in the chair.

But he couldn't pull away now. So he lay there holding her, thinking about what came next.

They now had a name, a tentative contact, up north: Nora Walker, the British Red Cross nurse. Lassiter had said she worked in the local hospital. Guy only hoped she'd talk to them, that she wouldn't think this was just another Company trick and clam up. Having Willy along might make all the difference. After all, Bill Maitland's daughter had a right to be asking questions. Nora Walker just might decide to provide the answers.

Willy sighed and nestled closer to his chest. That brought a smile to his face.
You crazy dame,
he thought, and kissed the top of her head.
You crazy, crazy dame.
He buried his face in her hair.

So it was decided. For better or worse, he was stuck with her.

T
HE FLIGHT ATTENDANT
walked up the aisle of the twin-engine Ilyushin and waved halfheartedly at the flies swarming around her head. Puffs of cold mist rose from the air-conditioning vents and swirled in the cabin; the woman seemed to be floating in clouds. Through the fog, Willy could barely read the emergency sign posted over the exit: Escape Rope. Now
there
was a safety feature to write home about. She had visions of the plane soaring through blue sky, trailing passengers on a ten thousand-foot rope.

A bundle of taffy landed in her lap, courtesy of the jaded attendant. “You will fasten your seat belt,” came the no-nonsense request.

“I'm already buckled in,” said Willy. Then she realized the woman was speaking to Guy. Willy nudged him. “Guy, your seat belt.”

“What? Oh, yeah.” He buckled the belt and managed a tight smile.

That's when she noticed he was clenching the armrest. She touched his hand. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine.”

“It's an old problem. Nothing, really…” He stared out the window and swallowed hard.

She couldn't help herself; she burst out laughing. “Guy Barnard, don't tell me you're afraid of
flying?
”

The plane lurched forward and began bumping along the tarmac. A stream of Vietnamese crackled over the speaker system, followed by Russian and then very fractured English.

“Look,” he protested, “some guys have a thing about heights or closed spaces or snakes. I happen to have a phobia about planes. Ever since the war.”

“Did something happen on your tour?”

“End of my tour.” He stared at the ceiling and laughed. “There's the irony. I make it through Nam alive. Then I board that big beautiful freedom bird. That's how I met Toby Wolff. He was sitting right next to me. We were both high, cracking jokes as we taxied up the runway. Going home.” He shook his head. “We were two of the lucky ones. Sitting in the last row of seats. The tail broke off on impact….”

She took his hand. “You don't have to talk about it, Guy.”

He looked at her in obvious admiration. “You're not in the least bit nervous, are you?”

“No. I've been in planes all my life. I've always felt at home.”

“Must be something you inherited from your old man. Pilot's genes.”

“Not just genes. Statistics.”

The Ilyushin's engines screamed to life. The cabin shuddered as they made their take-off roll down the runway. The ground suddenly fell away, and the plane wobbled into the sky.

“I happen to know flying is a perfectly safe way to travel,” she added.

“Safe?” Guy yelled over the engines' roar. “Obviously, you've never flown Air Vietnam!”

 

I
N
H
ANOI, THEY WERE MET
by a Vietnamese escort known only as Miss Hu, beautiful, unsmiling and cadre to the
core. Her greeting was all business, her handshake strictly government issue. Unlike Mr. Ainh, who'd been a fountain of good-humored chatter, Miss Hu obviously believed in silence. And the Revolution. Only once on the drive into the city did the woman offer a voluntary remark. Directing their attention to the twisted remains of a bridge, she said, “You see the damage? American bombs.” That was it for small talk. Willy stared at the woman's rigid shoulders and realized that, for some people on both sides, the war would never be over.

She was so annoyed by Miss Hu's comment that she didn't notice Guy's preoccupied look. Only when she saw him glance for the third time out the back window did she realize what he was focusing on: a Mercedes with darkly tinted windows was trailing right behind them. She and Guy exchanged glances.

The Mercedes followed them all the way into town. Only when they pulled up in front of the hotel did the other car pass them. It headed around the corner, its occupants obscured behind dark glass.

Willy's door was pulled open. Heat poured in, a knockdown, drag-out heat that left her stunned.

Miss Hu stood waiting outside, her face already pearled with sweat. “The hotel is air-conditioned,” she said and added, with a note of disdain, “for the comfort of
foreigners.
”

As it turned out, the so-called air-conditioning was scarcely functioning. In fact, the hotel itself seemed to be sputtering along on little more than its old French colonial glory. The entry rug was ratty and faded, the lobby furniture a sad mélange of battered rosewood and threadbare cushions. While Guy checked in at the reception desk,
Willy stationed herself near their suitcases and kept watch over the lobby entrance.

She wasn't surprised when, seconds later, two Vietnamese men, both wearing dark glasses, strolled through the door. They spotted her immediately and veered off toward an alcove, where they loitered behind a giant potted fern. She could see the smoke from their cigarettes curling toward the ceiling.

“We're all checked in,” said Guy. “Room 308. View of the city.”

Willy touched his arm. “Two men,” she whispered. “Three o'clock…”

“I see them.”

“What do we do now?”

“Ignore them.”

“But—”

“Mr. Barnard?” called Miss Hu. They both turned. The woman was waving a slip of paper. “The desk clerk says there is a telegram for you.”

Guy frowned. “I wasn't expecting any telegram.”

“It arrived this morning in Saigon, but you had just left. The hotel called here with the message.” She handed Guy the scribbled phone memo and watched with sharp eyes as he read it.

If the message was important, Guy didn't show it. He casually stuffed it into his pocket and, picking up the suitcases, nudged Willy into a waiting elevator.

“Not bad news?” called Miss Hu.

Guy smiled at her. “Just a note from a friend,” he said, and punched the elevator button.

Willy caught a last glimpse of the two Vietnamese men peering at them from behind the fern, and then the door slid shut. Instantly, Guy gripped her hand.
Don't say a word,
she read in his eyes.

It was a silent ride to the third floor.

Up in their room, Willy watched in puzzlement as Guy circled around, discreetly running his fingers under lamp-shades and along drawers, opened the closet, searched the nightstands. Behind the headboard, he finally found what he was seeking: a wireless microphone, barely the size of a postage stamp. He left it where it was. Then he went to the window and stared down at the street.

“How flattering,” he murmured. “We rate baby-sitting service.”

She moved beside him and saw what he was looking at: the black Mercedes, parked on the street below. “What about that telegram?” she whispered.

In answer, he pulled out the slip of paper and handed it to her. She read it twice, but it made no sense.

Guy let the curtain flap shut and began to pace furiously around the room. By the look of him, he was thinking up a blizzard, planning some scheme.

He suddenly halted. “Do you want something for your stomach?” he asked.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Pepto Bismol might help. And you'd better lie down for a while. That old intestinal bug can get pretty damn miserable.”

“Intestinal bug?” She gave him a helpless look.

He stalked to the desk and rummaged in a drawer for a piece of hotel stationery, talking all the while. “I'll bet it's that seafood you ate last night. Are you still feeling really lousy?” He held up a sheet of paper on which he'd scribbled, “Yes!!!”

“Yes,” she said. “Definitely lousy. I—I think I should lie down.” She paused. “Shouldn't I?”

He was writing again. The sheet of paper now said, “You want to go to the hospital!”

She nodded and went into the bathroom, where she groaned loudly a few times and flushed the toilet. “You know, I feel really rotten. Maybe I should see a doctor….”It struck her then, as she stood by the sink and watched the water hiss out of the faucet, exactly what he was up to.
The man's a genius,
she thought with sudden admiration. Turning to look at him, she said, “Do you think we'll find anyone who speaks English?”

She was rewarded with a thumbs-up sign.

“We could try the hospital,” he said. “Maybe it won't be a doctor, but they should have someone who'll understand you.”

She went to the bed and sat down, bouncing a few times to make the springs squeak. “God, I feel awful.”

He sat beside her and placed his hand on her forehead. His eyes were twinkling as he said, “Lady, you're really hot.”

“I know,” she said gravely.

They could barely hold back their laughter.

 

“S
HE DID NOT SEEM ILL
an hour ago,” Miss Hu said as she ushered them into the limousine ten minutes later.

“The cramps came on suddenly,” said Guy.

“I would say
very
suddenly,” Miss Hu noted aridly.

“I think it was the seafood,” Willy whimpered from the back seat.

“You Americans,” Miss Hu sniffed. “Such delicate stomachs.”

The hospital waiting room was hot as an oven and overflowing with patients. As Willy and Guy entered, a hush
instantly fell over the crowd. The only sounds were the rhythmic clack of the ceiling fan and a baby crying in its mother's lap. Every eye was watching as the two Americans moved through the room toward the reception desk.

The Vietnamese nurse behind the desk stared in mute astonishment. Only when Miss Hu barked out a question did the nurse respond with a nervous shake of the head and a hurried answer.

“We have only Vietnamese doctors here,” translated Miss Hu. “No Europeans.”

“You have no one trained in the West?” Guy asked.

“Why, do you feel your Western medicine is superior?”

“Look, I'm not here to argue East versus West. Just find someone who speaks English. A nurse'll do. You have English-speaking nurses, don't you?”

Scowling, Miss Hu turned and muttered to the desk nurse, who made a few phone calls. At last Willy was led down a corridor to a private examination room. It was stocked with only the basics: an examining table, a sink, an instrument cart. Cotton balls and tongue depressors were displayed in dusty glass jars. A fly buzzed lazily around the one bare lightbulb. The nurse handed Willy a tattered gown and gestured for her to undress.

Willy had no intention of stripping while Miss Hu stood watch in the corner.

“I would appreciate some privacy,” Willy said.

The other woman didn't move. “Mr. Barnard is staying,” she pointed out.

“No.” Willy looked at Guy. “Mr. Barnard is leaving.”

“In fact, I was just on my way out,” said Guy, turning toward the door. He added, for Miss Hu's benefit, “You know, Comrade, in America it's considered quite rude to watch while someone undresses.”

“I was only trying to confirm what I've heard about
Western women's undergarments,” Miss Hu insisted as she and the nurse followed Guy out the door.

“What, exactly, have you heard?” asked Guy.

“That they are designed with the sole purpose of arousing prurient interest from the male sex.”

“Comrade,” said Guy with a grin, “I would be delighted to share my knowledge on the topic of ladies' undergarments….”

The door closed, leaving Willy alone in the room. She changed into the gown and sat on the table to wait.

Moments later, a tall, fortyish woman wearing a white lab coat walked in. The name tag on her lapel confirmed that she was Nora Walker. She gave Willy a brisk nod of greeting and paused beside the table to glance through the notes on the hospital clipboard. Strands of gray streaked her mane of brown hair; her eyes were a deep green, as unfathomable as the sea.

“I'm told you're American,” the woman said, her accent British. “We don't see many Americans here. What seems to be the problem?”

“My stomach's been hurting. And I've been nauseated.”

“How long now?”

“A day.”

“Any fever?”

“No fever. But lots of cramping.”

The woman nodded. “Not unusual for Western tourists.” She looked back down at the clipboard. “It's the water. Different bacterial strains than you're used to. It'll take a few days to get over it. I'll have to examine you. If you'll just lie down, Miss—” She focused on the name written on the clipboard. Instantly she fell silent.

“Maitland,” said Willy softly. “My name is Willy Maitland.”

Nora cleared her throat. In a flat voice she said, “Please lie down.”

Obediently, Willy settled back on the table and allowed the other woman to examine her abdomen. The hands probing her belly were cold as ice.

“Sam Lassiter said you might help us,” Willy whispered.

“You've spoken to Sam?”

“In Cantho. I went to see him about my father.”

Nora nodded and said, suddenly businesslike, “Does that hurt when I press?”

“No.”

“How about here?”

“A little tender.”

Now, once again in a whisper, Nora asked, “How is Sam doing these days?”

Willy paused. “He's dead,” she murmured.

The hands resting on her belly froze. “Dear God. How—” Nora caught herself, swallowed. “I mean, how…much does it hurt?”

Willy traced her finger, knifelike, across her throat.

Nora took a breath. “I see.” Her hands, still resting on Willy's abdomen, were trembling. For a moment she stood silent, her head bowed. Then she turned and went to a medicine cabinet. “I think you need some antibiotics.” She took out a bottle of pills. “Are you allergic to sulfa?”

“I don't think so.”

Nora took out a blank medication label and began to fill in the instructions. “May I see proof of identification, Miss Maitland?”