There were always questions when a soldier was missing in action.
Guy skimmed the pages, made a few mental notes and reached for another file. These were the most likely cases, the men whose stories best matched the newest collection of remains. The Vietnamese government was turning over three sets, and Guy’s job was to confirm the skeletons were non-Vietnamese and to give each one a name, rank and serial number. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant job, but one that had to be done.
He set aside the second file and reached for the next.
This one didn’t contain a photograph; it was a supplementary file, one he’d reluctantly added to his briefcase at the last minute. The cover was stamped Confidential, then, a year ago, restamped Declassified. He opened the file and frowned at the first page.
Code Name: Friar Tuck
Status: Open (Current as of 10/85)
File Contains:
Summary of Witness Reports
Possible Identities
Search Status
Friar Tuck. A legend known to every soldier who’d fought in Nam. During the war, Guy had assumed those tales of a rogue American pilot flying for the enemy were mere fantasy.
Then, a few weeks ago, he’d learned otherwise.
He’d been at his desk at the Army Lab when two men, representatives of an organization called the Ariel Group, had appeared in his office. “We have a proposition,” they’d said. “We know you’re visiting Nam soon, and we want you to look for a war criminal.” The man they were seeking was Friar Tuck.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Guy had laughed. “I’m not a military cop. And there’s no such man. He’s a fairy tale.”
In answer, they’d handed him a twenty-thousand-dollar check—“for expenses,” they’d said. There’d be more to come if he brought the traitor back to justice.
“And if I don’t want the job?” he’d asked.
“You can hardly refuse,” was their answer. Then they’d told Guy exactly what they knew about him, about his past, the thing he’d done in the war. A brutal secret that could destroy him, a secret he’d kept hidden away behind a wall of fear and self-loathing. They told him exactly what he could expect if it came to light. The hard glare of publicity. The trial. The jail cell.
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.
It 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.
Willy Maitland 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.
Chapter Two
At 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 aftershave. 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 backseat 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.”