Guy looked down at his glass, swirled the whiskey. “I was set up,” he muttered. “That mysterious appointment with Kistner—”
“Was to get you and Miss Maitland together. She was in dangerous waters, already floundering. We knew she’d need help. But it had to be someone completely unconnected with the Company, someone the Vietnamese wouldn’t suspect. As it turned out, you were it.”
Guy’s fists tightened on the countertop. “I did your dirty work—”
“You did Uncle Sam a favor. We knew you were slated to go to Saigon. That you knew the country. A bit of the language. We also knew you had a…shall we say, vulnerable aspect to your past.” He gave Guy a significant look.
They know, Guy thought. They’ve probably always known. Slowly, he said, “That visit from the Ariel Group…”
“Ah, yes. Ariel. Lovely ring to it, don’t you think? It happens to be the name of General Kistner’s youngest granddaughter.” Hamilton smiled. “You needn’t worry, Guy. We can be discreet. Especially when we feel we’ve been well served.”
“What if you’d been wrong about me? What if I was working for Toby Wolff? I could have killed her.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I had a ‘vulnerable’ aspect to my past, remember?”
“You’re clean, Guy. Even with your past, you’re cleaner than any flag-waving patriot in Washington.”
“How would you know?”
Hamilton shrugged. “You’d be amazed at the things we know about you. About everyone.”
“But you couldn’t predict what I’d do! What Willy would do. What if she’d told me to go to hell?”
“It was a gamble. But she’s an attractive woman. And you’re a resourceful man. We took a chance on chemistry.”
And it worked, thought Guy. Damn you, Hamilton, the chemistry worked just fine.
“At any rate,” said Hamilton, sliding a few bills onto the bar, “you’ll be rewarded with the silence you crave. I’m afraid the bounty’s out of the question, though—budget deficit and all. But you’ll have the distinct pleasure of knowing you served your country well.”
That’s when Guy burst into unstoppable laughter. He laughed so hard, tears came to his eyes; so loud, a dozen heads turned to look at him.
“Have I missed the joke?” Hamilton inquired politely.
“The joke,” said Guy, “is on me.”
He laughed all the way out the door.
Chapter Fifteen
Her father, once again, was leaving.
Early on a rainy morning, Willy stood in the bedroom doorway and watched him pack his suitcase, the way she’d watched him pack it long ago. She’d had him home such a short time, only a few days since his release from the hospital. And he’d spent every moment pining for his family—his other family. Oh, he hadn’t complained or been unkind, but she’d seen the sadness in his gaze, heard his sighs as he’d wandered about the house. She’d known it was inevitable: that he’d be walking out of her life again.
He took one last look in the closet, then turned to the dresser.
She glanced down at a pair of brand-new loafers that he’d set aside in the closet. “Dad, aren’t you taking your shoes?” she asked.
“At home, I don’t wear shoes.”
“Oh.” This used to be your home, she thought.
She wandered into the living room, sat down by the window and stared out at the rain. It seemed as if a lifetime of sorrow had been crammed into these past two weeks she’d been home. While her father had recuperated in a military hospital, in a civilian hospital a few miles away, her mother had lain dying. It had been wrenching to drive back and forth between them, to shift from seeing her father regain his strength to seeing her mother fade. Ann’s death had come more quickly than the doctors had predicted; it was almost as if she’d held on just long enough to see her husband one last time, then had allowed herself to quietly slip away.
She’d forgiven him, of course.
Just as Willy had forgiven him.
Why was it always women who had to do the forgiving? she’d wondered.
“I’m all packed,” her father said, carrying his suitcase into the living room. “I’ve called a cab.”
“Are you sure you’ve got everything? The kids’ toys? The books?”
“It’s all in here. What a delivery! They’re going to think I’m Santa Claus.” He set the suitcase down and sat on the couch. They didn’t speak for a moment.
“You won’t be coming back, will you?” she said at last.
“It may not be easy.”
“May I come see you?”
“Willy, you know you can! Both you and Guy. And next time, we’ll make it a decent visit.” He laughed. “Nice and quiet and dull. Guy’ll appreciate that.”
There was a long silence. Her father asked, “Have you spoken to him lately?”
She looked away. “It’s been two weeks.”
“That long?”
“He hasn’t called.”
“Why haven’t you called him?”
“I’ve been busy. A lot of things to take care of. But you know that.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Well, he ought to know.” Suddenly agitated, she rose and paced the room, finally returning to the window. “I’m not really surprised he hasn’t called. After all, we had our little adventure, and now it’s back to life as usual.” She glanced at her father. “Men hate that, don’t they? Life as usual.”
“Some men do. On the other hand, some of us change.”
“Oh, Dad, I’ve been around the block. I can tell when things are over.”
“Did Guy say that?”
She turned and gazed back out the window. “He didn’t have to.”
Her father didn’t comment. After a while, she heard him go back into the bedroom, but she didn’t move. She just kept staring out at the rain, thinking about Guy. Wondering for the first time if maybe she had done the running away.
No, it wasn’t running. It was facing reality. Together they’d had the time of their lives, a crazy week of emotions gone wild, of terror and exhilaration, when every breath, every heartbeat had seemed like a gift from God.
Of course, it hadn’t lasted.
But whose fault was that?
She felt herself drawn almost against her will to the telephone. Even as she dialed his number, she wondered what she’d say to him. Hello, Guy. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I love you. Then she’d hang up and spare him the ordeal of admitting the feeling wasn’t mutual. She let it ring twelve times, knowing it was 4:00 a.m. in Honolulu, knowing he should be home.
There were tears in her eyes when she finally hung up. She stood staring down at the phone, wondering how that inanimate collection of wires and plastic could leave her feeling so betrayed. Damn you, she thought. You never even gave me the chance to make a fool of myself.
The sound of tires splashing across wet streets made her look out the window. Through pouring rain she saw a cab pull up at the curb.
“Dad?” she called. She went to her father’s bedroom. “Your taxi’s here.”
“Already?” He glanced around to see if he’d forgotten anything. “Okay. I guess this is it, then.”
The doorbell rang. He threw on his raincoat and strode across the living room. Willy wasn’t watching as he opened the door, but she heard him say, “I don’t believe it.” She turned.
“Hello, Maitland,” said Guy.
The two men, both wearing raincoats, both holding suitcases, grinned at each other across the threshold.
Guy shook the raindrops from his hair. “Mind if I come in?”
“Gee, I don’t know. I’d better ask the boss.” Maitland turned to his daughter. “What do you think? Can the man come in?”
Willy was too stunned to say a word.
“I guess that’s a yes,” her father said, and he motioned for Guy to enter.
Guy stepped over the threshold and set his suitcase down. Then he just stood there, looking at her. Rain had plas
tered his hair to his forehead, lines of exhaustion mapped his face, but no man had ever looked so wonderful. She tried to remind herself of all the reasons she didn’t want to see him, all the reasons she should throw him out into the rain. But she couldn’t seem to find her voice. She could only stare at him in wonder and remember how it had felt to be in his arms.
Maitland shuffled uneasily. “I…uh…I think I forgot to pack something,” he muttered, and he discreetly vanished into the bedroom.
For a moment, the only sound was the water dripping from Guy’s raincoat onto the wood floor.
“How’s your mother?” Guy asked.
“She died, five days ago.”
He shook his head. “Willy, I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
“How are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m…fine.” She looked away. I love you, she thought. And yet here we are, two strangers engaging in small talk. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she repeated, as though to convince him—to convince herself—that the anguish of these past two weeks had been a minor ache not worth mentioning.
“You look pretty good, considering.”
She shrugged. “You look terrible.”
“Not too surprising. Didn’t get any sleep on the plane. And there was this baby screaming in the next seat, all the way from Bangkok.”
“Bangkok?” She frowned. “You were in Bangkok?”
He nodded and laughed. “It’s this crazy business I’m in. Got home from Nam, and a week later, they asked me to fly back…for Sam Lassiter.” He paused. “I admit I wasn’t thrilled about getting on another plane, but I figured it was something I had to do.” He paused and added quietly, “No soldier should have to come home alone.”
She thought about Lassiter, about that evening in the river café, the love song scratching from the record player, the paper lanterns fluttering in the wind. She thought about his body drifting in the waters of the Mekong. And she thought about the dark-eyed woman who’d loved him. “You’re right,” she said. “No soldier should have to come home alone.”
There was another pause. She felt him watching her, waiting.
“You could have called me,” she said.
“I wanted to.”
“But you never got the chance, right?”
“I had plenty of chances.”
“But you didn’t bother?” She looked up. All the hurt, all the rage suddenly rose to the surface. “Two weeks with no word from you! And here you have the gall to show up unannounced, walk in my door and drop your damn suitcase in my living—”
The last word never made it to her lips. But he did. She was dragged into a rain-drenched embrace, and everything she’d planned to say, all the hurt and angry words, were swept away by that one kiss. The only sound she could manage was a small murmur of astonishment, and then she was whirled up in a wild maelstrom of desire. She lost all sense of where she ended and he began. She only knew, in that instant, that he had never really left her, that as long as she lived, he’d be part of her. Even as he pulled back to look at her, she was still drunk with the taste of him.
“I did want to call you. But I didn’t know what to say…”
“I kept waiting for you to call. All these days…”
“Maybe I was…I don’t know. Scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of hearing it was over. That you’d come to your senses and decided I wasn’t worth the risk. But then, when I got to Bangkok, I stopped at the Oriental Hotel. Had a drink on the terrace for old time’s sake. Saw the same sunset, the same boats on the river. But it just didn’t feel the same without you.” He sighed. “Hell, nothing feels the same without you.”
“You never told me. You just dropped out of my life.”
“It never seemed like…the right time.”
“The right time for what?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
He shook his head in irritation. “You never make it easy, do you?”
She stepped back and gave him a long, critical look. Then she smiled. “I never intended to.”
“Oh, Willy.” He threw his arms around her and pulled her tightly against his chest. “I can see you and I are going to have a lot of things to settle.”
“Such as?”
“Such as…” He lowered his mouth to hers and whispered, “Such as who gets to sleep on the right side of the bed….”
“Oh,” she murmured as their lips brushed. “You will.”
“And who gets to name our firstborn….”
She settled warmly into his arms and sighed. “I will.”
“And who’ll be first to say ‘I love you.’”
There was a pause. “That one,” she said with a smile, “is open to negotiation.”
“No, it’s not,” he said, tugging her face up to his.
They stared at each other, both longing to hear the words but stubbornly waiting for the other to give in first.
It was a simultaneous surrender.
“I love you,” Willy heard him say, just as the same three words tumbled from her lips.
Their laughter was simultaneous, too, bright and joyous and ringing with hope.
The kiss that followed was warm, seeking, but all too brief; it left her aching for more.
“It gets even better with practice,” he whispered.
“Saying ‘I love you?’”
“No. Kissing.”
“Oh,” she murmured. She added in a small voice, “Then can we try it again?”
Outside, a horn honked, dragging them both back to reality. Through the window they saw another taxi waiting at the curb.
Reluctantly Willy pulled out of Guy’s arms. “Dad?” she called.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Her father emerged from the bedroom, pulling on his raincoat again. He paused and looked at her.
“Uh, why don’t you two say goodbye,” said Guy, diplomatically turning for the front door. “I’ll take your suitcase out to the car.”
Willy and her father were left standing alone in the room. They looked at each other, both knowing that this, like every goodbye, could be the last.
“Are things okay between you and Guy?” Maitland asked.
Willy nodded.
There was another silence. Then her father asked softly, “And between you and me?”
She smiled. “Things are okay there, too.” She went to him then, and they held each other. “Yes,” she murmured against his chest, “between you and me, things are definitely okay.”
A little reluctantly, he turned to leave. In the doorway, he and Guy shook hands.
“Have a good trip back, Maitland.”
“I will. Take care of things, will you? And, Guy—thanks a lot.”
“For what?”
Maitland glanced back at Willy. It was a look of regret. And redemption. “For giving me back my daughter,” he said.
As Wild Bill Maitland walked out the door, Guy walked in. He didn’t say a thing. He just took Willy in his arms and hugged her.
As the taxi drove away, she thought, My father has left me. Again.
She looked up at Guy. And what about you?
He answered her unspoken question by taking her face in his hands and kissing her. Then he gave the door a little kick; with a thud of finality, it swung shut.
And she knew that this time, the man would be staying.
WHISTLEBLOWER
To Fien and Frans
Prologue
Branches whipped his face, and his heart was pounding so hard he thought his chest would explode, but he couldn’t stop running. Already, he could hear the man gaining on him, could almost imagine the bullet slicing through the night and slamming into his back. Maybe it already had. Maybe he was trailing a river of blood; he was too numb with terror to feel anything now, except the desperate hunger to live. The rain was pouring down his face, icy, blinding sheets of it, rattling on the dead leaves of winter. He stumbled through a pool of darkness and found
himself sprawled flat on his belly in the mud. The sound of his fall was deafening. His pursuer, alerted by the sharp crack of branches, altered course and was now headed straight for him. The thud of a silencer, the zing of a bullet past his cheek, told him he’d been spotted. He forced himself to his feet and made a sharp right, zigzagging back toward the highway. Here in the woods, he was a dead man. But if he could flag down a car, if he could draw someone’s attention, he might have a chance.
A crash of branches, a coarse oath, told him his pursuer had stumbled. He’d gained a few precious seconds. He kept running, moving only by an instinctive sense of direction. There was no light to guide his way, nothing except the dim glow of the clouds in the night sky. The road had to be just ahead. Any second now, his feet would hit pavement.
And then what? What if there’s no car to flag down, no one to help me?
Then, through the trees ahead, he saw a faint flickering, two watery beams of light.
With a desperate burst of speed, he sprinted toward the car. His lungs were on fire, his eyes blinded by the lash of branches and rain. Another bullet whipped past him and thudded into a tree trunk, but the gunman behind him had suddenly lost all importance. All that mattered was those lights, beckoning him through the darkness, taunting him with the promise of salvation.
When his feet suddenly hit the pavement, he was shocked. The lights were still ahead, bobbing somewhere beyond the trees. Had he missed the car? Was it already moving away, around a curve? No, there it was, brighter now. It was coming this way. He ran to meet it, following the bend of the road and knowing all the time that here in the open, he was an easy target. The sound of his shoes slapping the wet road filled his ears. The lights twisted toward him. At that instant, he heard the gun fire a third time. The force of the impact made him stumble to his knees, and he was vaguely aware of the bullet tearing through his shoulder, of the warmth of his own blood dribbling down his arm, but he was oblivious to pain. He could focus only on staying alive. He struggled back to his feet, took a stumbling step forward…
And was blinded by the onrush of headlights. There was no time to throw himself out of the way, no time even to register panic. Tires screamed across the pavement, throwing up a spray of water.