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.
CHAPTER NINE
THE 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!”
IN HANOI, 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.”