"Never say die" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gerritsen Tess)

Chapter Three

Tobias Wolff swiveled his wheelchair around from the liquor cabinet and faced his old friend. "If I were you, Guy, I'd stay the hell out of it."

It had been five years since they'd last seen each other. Toby still looked as muscular as ever-at least from the waist up. Fifteen years' confinement to a wheelchair had bulked out those shoulders and arms. Still, the years had taken their inevitable toll. Toby was close to fifty now, and he looked it. His bushy hair, cut Beethoven style, was almost entirely gray. His face was puffy and sweating in the tropical heat. But the dark eyes were as sharp as ever.

"Take some advice from an old Company man," he said, handing Guy a glass of Scotch. "There's no such thing as a coincidental meeting. There are only planned encounters."

"Coincidence or not," said Guy, "Willy Maitland could be the break I've been waiting for."

"Or she could be nothing but trouble."

"What've I got to lose?"

"Your life?"

"Come on, Toby! You're the only one I can trust to give me a straight answer."

"It was a long time ago. I wasn't directly connected to the case."

"But you were in Vientiane when it happened. You must remember something about the Maitland file."

"Only what I heard in passing, none of it confirmed. Hell, it was like the Wild West out there. Rumors flying thicker 'n the mosquitoes."

"But not as thick as you covert-action boys."

Toby shrugged. "We had a job to do. We did it."

"You remember who handled the Maitland case?"

"Had to be Mike Micklewait. I know he was the case officer who debriefed that villager-the one who came in for the reward."

"Did Micklewait think the man was on the level?"

"Probably not. I know the villager never got the reward."

"Why wasn't Maitland's family told about all this?"

"Hey, Maitland wasn't some poor dumb draftee. He was working for Air America. In other words, CIA. That's a job you don't talk about. Maitland knew the risks."

"The family deserved to hear about any new evidence." Guy thought about the surreptitious way Willy and her mother had learned of it.

Toby laughed. "There was a secret war going on, remember? We weren't even supposed to be in Laos. Keeping families informed was at the bottom of anyone's priority list."

"Was there some other reason it was hushed up? Something to do with the passenger?''

Toby's eyebrows shot up. "Where did you hear that rumor?"

"Willy Maitland. She heard there was a Lao on board. Everyone's denying his existence, so my guess is he was a very important person. Who was he?"

"I don't know." Toby wheeled around and looked out the open window of his apartment. From the darkness came the sounds and smells of the Bangkok streets. Meat sizzling on an open-air grill. Women laughing. The rumble of a tuk-tuk. "There was a hell of a lot going on back then. Things we never talked about. Things we were even ashamed to talk about. What with all the agents and counteragents and generals and soldiers of fortune, you could never really be sure who was running the place. Everyone was pulling strings, trying to get rich quick. I couldn't wait to get the hell out." He slapped the wheelchair in anger. "And this is where I end up. Great retirement." Sighing, he leaned back and stared out at the night. "Let it be, Guy," he said softly. "If you're right-if someone's out to hit Maitland's kid-then this is too hot to handle."

"Toby, that's the point! Why is the case so hot? Why, after all these years, would Maitland's brat be making them nervous? What do they think she'll find out?"

"Does she know what she's getting into?"

"I doubt it. Anyway, nothing'll stop this dame. She's a chip off the old block."

"Meaning she's trouble. How're you going to get her to work with you?"

"That's the part I haven't figured out yet."

"There's always the Romeo approach."

Guy grinned. "I'll keep it in mind."

In fact, that was precisely the tactic he'd been considering all evening. Not because he was so sure it would work, but because she was an attractive woman and he couldn't help wondering what she was really like under that tough-gal facade.

"Alternatively," Toby said, "you could try telling her the truth. That you're not after her. You're after the three million bounty."

"Two million."

"Two million, three million, what's the difference? It's a lot of dough."

"And I could use a lot of help," Guy said with quiet significance.

Toby sighed. "Okay," he said, at last wheeling around to look at him. "You want a name, I'll give you one. May or may not help you. Try Alain Gerard, a Frenchman, living these days in Saigon. He used to have close ties with the Company, knew all the crap going on in Vientiane."

"Ex-Company and living in Saigon? Why haven't the "Vietnamese kicked him out?"

"He's useful to them. During the war he made his money exporting, shall we say, raw pharmaceuticals. Now he's turned humanitarian in his old age. U.S. trade embargoes cut the Viets off from Western markets. Gerard brings in medical supplies from France, antibiotics, X-ray film. In return, they let him stay in the country."

"Can I trust him?"

"He's ex-Company."

"Then I can't trust him."

Toby grunted. "You seem to trust me."

"You're different."

"That's only because I owe you, Barnard. Though I often think you should've left me to burn in that plane." Toby kneaded his senseless thighs. "No one has much use for half a man."

"Doesn't take legs to make a man, Toby."

"Ha. Tell that to Uncle Sam." Using his powerful arms, Toby shifted his weight in the chair. "When're you leaving for Saigon?"

"Tomorrow morning. I moved my flight up a few days." Guy's palms were already sweating at the thought of boarding that Air France plane. He tossed back a mind-numbing gulp of Scotch. "Wish I could take a boat instead."

Toby laughed. "You'd be the first boat person going back to Vietnam. Still scared to fly, huh?"

"White knuckles and all." He set his glass down and headed for the door. "Thanks for the drink. And the tip."

"I'll see what else I can do for you," Toby called after him. "I still might have a few contacts in-country. Maybe I can get 'em to watch over you. And the woman. By the way, is anyone keeping an eye on her tonight?"

"Some buddies of Puapong's. They won't let anyone near her. She should get to the airport in one piece."

"And what happens then?"

Guy paused in the doorway. "We'll be in Saigon. Things'll be safer there."

"In Saigon?" Toby shook his head. "Don't count on it."

The crowd at the Bong Bong Club had turned wild, the men drunkenly shouting and groping at the stage as the girls, dead-eyed, danced on. No one took notice of the two men huddled at a dark corner table.

"I am disappointed, Mr. Siang. You're a professional, or so I thought. I fully expected you to deliver. Yet the woman is still alive."

Stung by the insult, Siang felt his face tighten. He was not accustomed to failure-or to criticism. He was glad the darkness hid his burning cheeks as he set his glass of vodka down on the table. "I tell you, this could not be predicted. There was interference-a man-"

"Yes, an American, so I've been told. A Mr. Barnard."

Siang was startled. "You've learned his name?"

"I make it a point to know everything."

Siang touched his bruised face and winced. This Mr. Barnard certainly had a savage punch. If they ever crossed paths again, Siang would make him pay for this humiliation.

"The woman leaves for Saigon tomorrow," said the man.

"Tomorrow?" Siang shook his head. "That does not leave me enough time."

"You have tonight."

"Tonight? Impossible." Siang had, in fact, already spent the past four hours trying to get near the woman. But the desk clerk at the Oriental had stood watch like a guard dog over the passkeys, the hotel security officer refused to leave his post near the elevators, and a bellboy kept strolling up and down the hall. The woman had been untouchable. Siang had briefly considered climbing up the balcony, but his approach was hampered by two vagrants camped on the riverbank beneath her window. Though hostile-looking, the tramps had posed no real threat to a man like Siang, but he hadn't wanted to risk a foolish, potentially messy scene.

And now his professional reputation was at stake.

"The matter grows more urgent," said the man. "This must be done soon."

"But she leaves Bangkok tomorrow. I can make no guarantees."

"Then do it in Saigon. Whether you finish it here or there, it has to be done."

Siang was stunned. "Saigon? I cannot return-"

"We'll send you under Thai diplomatic cover. A cultural attache, perhaps. I'll decide and arrange the entry papers accordingly."

"Vietnamese security is tight. I will not be able to bring in any-"

"The diplomatic pouch goes out twice a week. Next drop is in three days. I'll see what weapons I can slip through. Until then, you'll have to improvise."

Siang fell silent, wondering how it would feel to once again walk the streets of Saigon. And he wondered about Chantal. How many years had it been since he'd seen her? Did she still hate him for leaving her behind? Of course, she would; she never forgot a grudge. Somehow, he'd have to work his way back into her affections. He didn't think that would be too difficult. Life in the new Vietnam must be hard these days, especially for a woman. Chantal liked her comforts; for a few precious luxuries, she might do anything. Even sell her soul.

She was a woman he could understand.

He looked across the table. "There will be expenses."

The man nodded. "I can be generous. As you well know."

Already Siang was making a mental list of what he'd need. Old clothes-frayed shirts and faded trousers-so he wouldn't stand out in a crowd. Cigarettes, soap and razor blades for bartering favors on the streets. And then he'd need a few special gifts for Chantal…

He nodded. The bargain was struck.

"One more thing," said the man as he rose to leave.

"Yes?"

"Other…parties seem to be involved. The Company, for instance. I wouldn't want to pull that particular tiger's tail. So keep bloodshed to a minimum. Only the woman dies. No one else."

"I understand."

After the man had left, Siang sat alone at the corner table, thinking. Remembering Saigon. Had it really been fifteen years? His last memories of the city were of panicked faces, of hands clawing frantically at a helicopter door, of the roar of chopper blades and the swirl of dust as the rooftops fell away.

Siang took a deep swallow of vodka and stood to leave. Just then, whistles and applause rose from the crowd gathered around the dance stage. A lone girl stood brown and naked in the spotlight. Around her waist was wrapped an eight-foot boa constrictor. The girl seemed to shudder as the snake slithered down between her thighs. The men shouted their approval.

Siang grinned. Ah, the Bong Bong Club. Always something new.

Saigon

From the rooftop garden of the Rex Hotel, Willy watched the bicycles thronging the intersection of Le Loi and Nguyen Hue. A collision seemed inevitable, only a matter of time. Riders whisked through at breakneck speed, blithely ignoring the single foolhardy pedestrian inching fearfully across the street. Willy was so intent on silently cheering the man on that she scarcely registered the monotonous voice of her government escort.

"And tomorrow, we will take you by car to see the National Palace, where the puppet government ruled in luxury, then on to the Museum of History, where you will learn about our struggles against the Chinese and the French imperialists. The next day, you will see our lacquer factory, where you can buy many beautiful gifts to bring home. And then-"

"Mr. Ainh," Willy said with a sigh, turning at last to her guide. "It all sounds very fascinating, this tour you've planned. But have you looked into my other business?"

Ainh blinked. Though his frame was chopstick thin, he had a cherubic face made owlish by his thick glasses. "Miss Maitland," he said in a hurt voice, "I have arranged a private car! And many wonderful meals."

"Yes, I appreciate that, but-"

"You are unhappy with your itinerary?"

"To be perfectly honest, I don't really care about a tour. I want to find out about my father."

"But you have paid for a tour! We must provide one."

"I paid for the tour to get a visa. Now that I'm here, I need to talk to the right people. You can arrange that for me, can't you?"

Ainh shifted nervously. "This is a… a complication. I do not know if I can… that is, it is not what I…" He drifted into helpless silence.

"Some months ago, I wrote to your foreign ministry about my father. They never wrote back. If you could arrange an appointment…"

"How many months ago did you write?"

"Six, at least."

"You are impatient. You cannot expect instant results."

She sighed. "Obviously not."

"Besides, you wrote the Foreign Ministry. I have nothing to do with them. I am with the Ministry of Tourism."

"And you folks don't communicate with each other, is that it?"

"They are in a different building."

"Then maybe-if it's not too much trouble-you could take me to their building?"

He looked at her bleakly. "But then who will take the tour?"

"Mr. Ainh," she said with gritted teeth, "cancel the tour."

Ainh looked like a man with a terrible headache. Willy almost felt sorry for him as she watched him retreat across the rooftop garden. She could imagine the bureaucratic quicksand he would have to wade through to honor her request. She'd already seen how the system operated-or, rather, how it didn't operate. That afternoon, at Ton Son Nhut Airport, it had taken three hours in the suffocating heat just to run the gauntlet of immigration officials.

A breeze swept the terrace, the first she'd felt all afternoon. Though she'd showered only an hour ago, her clothes were already soaked with sweat. Sinking into a chair, she gazed off at the skyline of Saigon, now painted a dusty gold in the sunset. Once, this must have been a glorious town of tree-lined boulevards and outdoor cafes where one could while away the afternoons sipping coffee.

But after its fall to the North, Saigon slid from the dizzy impudence of wealth to the resignation of poverty. The signs of decay were everywhere, from the chipped paint on the old French colonials to the skeletons of buildings left permanently unfinished. Even the Rex Hotel, luxurious by local standards, seemed to be fraying at the edges. The terrace stones were cracked. In the fish pond, three listless carp drifted like dead leaves. The rooftop swimming pool had bloomed an unhealthy shade of green. A lone Russian tourist sat on the side and dangled his legs in the murky water, as though weighing the risks of a swim.

It occurred to Willy that her immediate situation was every bit as murky as that water. The Vietnamese obviously believed in a proper channel for everything, and without Ainh's help, there was no way she could navigate any channel, proper or otherwise.

What then? she thought wearily. I can't do this alone. I need help. I need a guide. I need-

"Now there's a lady who looks down on her luck," said a voice.

She looked up to see Guy Barnard's tanned face framed against the sunset. Her instant delight at seeing someone familiar-even him-only confirmed the utter depths of despair to which she'd sunk.

He flashed her a smile that could have charmed the habit off a nun. "Welcome to Saigon, capital of fallen dreams. How's it goin', kid?"

She sighed. "You need to ask?"

"Nope. I've been through it before, running around like a headless chicken, scrounging up seals of approval for every piddly scrap of paper. This country has got bureaucracy down to an art."

"I could live without the pep talk, thank you."

"Can I buy you a beer?"

She studied that smile of his, wondering what lay behind it. Suspecting the worst.

Seeing her weaken, he called for two beers, then dropped into a chair and regarded her with rumpled cheerfulness.

"I thought you weren't due in Saigon till Wednesday," she said.

"Change of plans."

"Pretty sudden, wasn't it?"

"Flexibility happens to be one of my virtues.'' He added, ruefully, "Maybe my only virtue."

The bartender brought over two frosty Heinekens. Guy waited until the man left before he spoke again.

"They brought in some new remains from Dak To," he said.

"MIAs?"

"That's what I have to find out. I knew I'd need a few extra days to examine the bones. Besides-" he took a gulp of beer "-I was getting bored in Bangkok."

"Sure."

"No, I mean it. I was ready for a change of scenery."

"You left the fleshpot of the East to come here and check out a few dead soldiers?"

"Believe it or not, I take my job seriously." He set the bottle down on the table. "Anyway, since I happen to be in town, maybe I could help you out. Since you probably need it."

Something about the way he looked at her, head cocked, teeth agleam in utter self-assurance, irritated her. "I'm doing okay," she said.

"Are you, now? So when's your first official meeting?"

"Things are being arranged."

"What sorts of things?"

"I don't know. Mr. Ainh's handling the details, and-"

"Mr. Ainh? You don't mean your tour guide?" He burst out laughing.

"Just why is that so funny?" she demanded.

"You're right," Guy said, swallowing his laughter. "It's not funny. It's pathetic. Do you want an advance look in my crystal ball? Because I can tell you exactly what's going to happen. First thing in the morning, your guide will show up with an apologetic look on his face."

"Why apologetic?"

"Because he'll tell you the ministry is closed for the day. After all, it's the grand and glorious holiday of July 18."

"Holiday? What holiday?"

"Never mind. He'll make something up. Then he'll ask if you wouldn't rather see the lacquer factory, where you can buy many beautiful gifts to bring home… "

Now she was laughing. Those were, in fact, Mr. Ainh's exact words.

"Then, the following day, he'll come up with some other reason you can't visit the ministry. Say, they're all sick with the swine flu or there's a critical shortage of pencil erasers. But-you can visit the National Palace!"

She stopped laughing. "I think I'm beginning to get your point."

"It's not that the man's deliberately sabotaging your plans. He simply knows how hopeless it is to untangle this bureaucracy. All he wants is to do his own little job, which is to be a tour guide and file innocuous reports about the nice lady tourist. Don't expect more from him. The poor guy isn't paid enough for what he already does."

"I'm not helpless. I can always start knocking on a few doors myself."

"Yeah, but which doors? And where are they hidden? And do you know the secret password?"

"Guy, you're making this country sound like a carnival funhouse."

"Fun is not the operative word here."

"What is the operative word?"

"Chaos." He pointed down at the street, where pedestrians and bicycles swarmed in mass anarchy. "See that? That's how this government works. It's every man for himself. Ministries competing with ministries, provinces with provinces. Every minor official protecting his own turf. Everyone scared to move an inch without a nod from the powers that be." He shook his head. "Not a system for the faint of heart."

"That's one thing I've never been."

"Wait till you've been sitting in some sweatbox of a 'reception' area for five hours. And your belly hurts from the bad water. And the closest bathroom is a hole in the-"

"I get the picture."

"Do you?"

"What are you suggesting I do?"

Smiling, he sat back. "Hang around with me. I have a contact here and there. Not in the Foreign Ministry, I admit, but they might be able to help you."

He wants something, she thought. What is it? Though his gaze was unflinching, she sensed a new tension in his posture, saw in his eyes the anticipation rippling beneath the surface.

"You're being awfully helpful. Why?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"That's hardly an answer."

"Maybe at heart I'm still the Boy Scout helping old ladies cross the street. Maybe I'm a nice guy."

"Maybe you could tell me the truth."

"Have you always had this problem trusting men?"

"Yes, and don't change the subject."

For a moment, he didn't speak. He sat drumming his fingers against the beer bottle. "Okay," he admitted. "So I fibbed a little. I was never a Boy Scout. But I meant it about helping you out. The offer stands."

She didn't say a thing. For Guy, that silence, that look of skepticism, said it all. The woman didn't trust him. But why not, when he'd sounded his most sincere? He wondered what had made her so mistrustful. Too many hard knocks in life? Too many men who'd lied to her?

Well, watch out, baby, 'cause this one's no different, he thought with a twinge of self-disgust.

He just as quickly shook off the feeling. The stakes were too high to be developing a conscience. Especially at his age.

Now he'd have to tell another he. He'd been lying a lot lately. It didn't get any easier.

"You're right," he said. "I'm not doing this out of the kindness of my heart."

She didn't look surprised. That annoyed him. "What do you expect in return?" she asked, her eyes hard on his. "Money?" She paused. "Sex?"

That last word, flung out so matter-of-factly, made his belly do a tiny loop-the-loop. Not that he hadn't already thought about that particular subject. He'd thought about it a lot ever since he'd met her. And now that she was sitting only a few feet away, watching him with those unyielding eyes, he was having trouble keeping certain images out of his head. Briefly he considered the possibility of throwing a little sex into the deal, but he just as quickly discarded the idea. He felt low enough as it was.

He calmly reached for the Heineken. The frostiness had gone out of the bottle. "No," he said. "Sex isn't part of the bargain."

"I see." She bit her lip. "Then it's money."

He gave a nod.

"I think you should know that I don't have any. Not for you, anyway."

"It's not your money I'm after."

"Then whose?"

He paused, willing his expression to remain bland. His voice dropped to a murmur. "Have you ever heard of the Ariel Group?"

"Never."

"Neither had I. Until two weeks ago, when I was contacted by two of their representatives. They're a veterans' organization, dedicated to bringing our MIAs home-alive. Even if it means launching a Rambo operation."

"I see," she said, her lips tightening. "We're talking about paramilitary kooks."

"That's what I thought-at first. I was about to kick 'em out of my office when they pulled out a check-a very generous one, I might add. Twenty thousand. For expenses, they said."

"Expenses? What are they asking you to do?"

"A little moonlighting. They knew I was scheduled to fly in-country. They wanted me to conduct a small, private search for MIAs. But they aren't interested in skeletons and dog tags. They're after flesh and blood."

"Live ones? You don't really think there are any, do you?"

"They do. And they only have to produce one. A single living MIA to back up their claims. With the publicity that'd generate, Washington would be forced to take action."

He fell silent as the waiter came by to collect the empty beer bottles. Only when the man had left did Willy ask softly, "And where do I come in?"

"It's not you. It's your father. From what you've told me, there's a chance-a small one, to be sure-that he's still alive. If he is, I can help you find him. I can help you bring him home."

His words, uttered so quietly, so confidently, made Willy fall still. Guy could tell she was trying to read his face, trying to figure out what be wasn't telling her. And he wasn't telling her a lot.

"What do you get out of this?" she asked.

"You mean besides the pleasure of your company?"

"You said there was money involved. Since I'm not paying you, I assume someone else is. The Ariel Group? Are they offering you more than just expenses?"

"Move to the head of the class."

"How much?"

"For an honest to God live one? Two million."

"Two million dollars?"

He squeezed her hand, hard. "Keep it down, will you? This isn't exactly public information."

She dropped her voice to a whisper. "You're serious? Two million?"

"Thafs their offer. Now you think about my offer. Work with me, and we could both come out ahead. You'd get your father back. I'd pick up a nice little retirement fund. A win-win situation." He grinned, knowing he had her now. She'd be stupid to refuse. And Willy Maitland was definitely not stupid. "I think you'll agree," he said. "It's a match made in heaven."

"Or hell," she muttered darkly. She sat back and gave him a look of pure cast iron. "You're nothing but a bounty hunter."

"If that's what you want to call me."

"I could call you quite a few things. None of them flattering."

"Before you start calling me names, maybe you should think about your options. Which happen to be pretty limited. The way I see it, you can go it alone, which so far hasn't gotten you a helluva lot of mileage. Or-" he leaned forward and beamed her his most convincing smile "-you could work with me."

Her mouth tightened. "I don't work with mercenaries."

"What've you got against mercenaries?"

"Just a minor matter-principle."

"It's the money that bothers you, isn't it? The fact that I'm doing it for cash and not out of the goodness of my heart."

"This isn't some big-game hunt! We're talking about men. Men whose families have wiped out their savings to pay worthless little Rambos like you! I know those families. Some of them are still hanging in, twisting around on that one shred of hope. And you know as well as I do that those soldiers aren't sitting around in some POW camp, waiting to be rescued. They're dead."

"You think your old man's alive."

"He's a different story."

"Right. And every one of those five hundred other MIAs could be another 'different story.'"

"J happen to have evidence!"

"But you don't have the smarts it takes to find him." Guy leaned forward, his gaze hard on hers. In the last light of sunset, her face seemed alight with fire, her cheeks glowing a beautiful dusky red. "If he's alive, you can't afford to screw up this chance. And you may get only one chance to find him. Because I'll tell you now, the Vietnamese won't let you back in the country for another deluxe tour. Admit it, Willy. You need me."

"No," she shot back. "You need me. Without my help, how are you going to cash in on your 'live one'?"

"How're.you going to find him?"

She was the one leaning forward now, so close, he almost pulled back in surprise. "Don't underestimate me, sleazeball," she muttered.

"And don't overestimate yourself, Junior. It's not easy finding answers in this country. No one, nothing's ever what it seems here. A flicker in the eye, a break in the voice can mean all the difference in the world. You need a partner. And, hey, I'm not unreasonable. I'll even think about splitting the reward with you. Say, ten percent. That's money you never expected, just to let me-"

"I don't give a damn about the money!" She rose sharply to her feet. "Go get rich off someone else's old man." She spun around and walked away.

"Won't you even think about it?" he yelled.

She just kept marching away across the rooftop garden, oblivious to the curious glances aimed her way.

"Take it from me, Willy! You need me!"

A trio of Russian tourists, their faces ruddy from a few rounds of vodka, glanced up as she passed. One of the men raised his glass in a drunken salute. "Maybe you like Russian man better?" he shouted.

She didn't even break her stride. But as she walked away, every guest on that rooftop heard her answer, which came floating back with disarming sweetness over her shoulder. "Go to hellski."