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I was actually mildly ambivalent about any form of sexual activity, mainly due to the hormones I was on, but partially due to my own history and lack of regular sexual relationships. I’d had relationships with women, but somehow there was something missing. It wasn’t as if I was gay, as I had never been the slightest bit tempted in that direction. Sex for sex’s sake did nothing for me, I think I was just one of those people who needed a certain someone to get me going, and we had yet to meet.

I returned to the gate to find that boarding was about to start. Once on board the aircraft, in my favourite aisle seat, I tried to relax. I hated being enclosed, so never sat next to the window or in a middle seat. As it happened, I had to stand as a large Australian couple had the two seats next to me. He allowed his wife to sit in the seat next to the window and introduced himself.

“Hello, I’m Bruce McGuiver; this is Mary, my wife.”

I discovered that Bruce had just retired from teaching and Mary had been a nurse. They were travelling the Far East, and then moving on to Canada and the States, before finishing up with a tour of Europe.

They were a pleasant, if a little dull, but as it was a short flight, I wasn’t likely to get involved in lengthy conversations. They were interested to learn I was Canadian, so we spoke about Canada a little. I had actually been there, so made the most of my limited experience and recent extensive research.

Landing in Hanoi had the effect of heightening my tension.

“Don’t like landings, hey?” asked Bruce, obviously conscious of my stress. I made another effort to control myself, but to be honest; I was beginning to regret returning.

“I’m okay, thanks anyway.”

The plane taxied to stand and that awful hanging about took place as we all waited for the doors to open. I was half way down the plane, so forced myself to relax as the general movement started.

I followed the crowd off the plane, with the ever-cheerful Thai cabin crew smiling and bidding us farewell. This terminal at Hanoi was very modern, much cleaner and less frightening from this approach, much like any other airport in the world. I lined up with everyone else, waiting for my turn at the immigration desk. I was conscious of groups of armed police, paying particular attention to all western males. Finally, I was at the front and presented my documents to the officer.

“Why you come to Vietnam, Miss Blanchard, business or tourism?”

“A little of both, I guess. I’m a freelance journalist covering the fashion exhibition, but hope to see some of your country while I’m here.”

“How long you stay?”

“Probably a couple of weeks. I’m not sure at the moment.”

“You have money?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, showing him the traveller’s cheques, Canadian dollars and credit cards in my purse.

“You know anyone in Vietnam?”

“Not yet, but I have some people I want to meet in the fashion industry. These are their names,” I said, producing the list and letters of introduction that Maryanne had given me.

He glanced at the list, nodded and then stamped my passport, handing it back to me.

“Enjoy your stay in Vietnam, Miss Blanchard.”

“Thanks, I hope to,” I replied, trying very hard not to run past his desk.

I collected my bag, walked through customs unmolested and out into the arrivals hall. I stopped for a second, just to take a deep breath, and then continued. My plan was to get the courtesy bus to the Melia Hanoi Hotel, which was in the heart of the business and diplomatic district, so not that far from a certain address with a unique garden.

With my small case in tow, I aimed for the exit, passing a newsagent outlet on my right. I glanced at the papers, only to see my old photograph staring at me. It was the photograph taken when I had been first charged with the burglary, so it brought back a flood of unpleasant memories. Out of curiosity, I stopped and went into the small shop. Most of the papers were Vietnamese, but some international papers were on display, including a three-day-old Daily Telegraph.

I wondered whether my escape had been discovered, so scanned the English paper for any clues, but, there was nothing about me that I could find.

“Lady, you buy?” asked the vendor.

Pointing at the local paper with the photograph, I asked, “What is that story about?”

“Wha? You buy?” The man clearly didn’t understand me. A voice behind me butted in.

“That man was an Englishman, he was caught stealing, here in Hanoi, so he was executed a few weeks ago. There has been some diplomatic pressure on our government to release the details of the case, as there seems some doubt that he was actually guilty.”

I turned to see a smart young Vietnamese man dressed in a dark suit. My alarm bells rang silently inside my head.

“Executed? Boy, what did he steal, the crown Jewels?”

The man laughed.

“No, it was a complicated matter involving a very large value of precious stones. There were diplomatic and industrial complications. Why are you so interested?”

I smiled. “I’m a journalist from Canada, and just got curious, I guess. He looks kinda cute and I was wondering what he’d done.”

“Which newspaper do you work for?”

“I don’t, I’m freelance, but for this trip, I have a contract with UNC for their syndicate. I usually cover fashion events and sell to whoever is willing to pay.”

“This story hasn’t been reported in the Western press?”

I shrugged, danger signs flashing inside my head. I knew there’d been a few papers running the story, mainly the British ones, but in the main, the British government seemed to have kept a lid on the whole fiasco. Maryanne had shown me her collection of reports, so I knew that the original arrest, the trial and conviction were reported. However, after that I was forgotten, left to rot with no one to care.

“He’s not a Canadian, so it was not widely reported in Canada, and certainly not in the fashion sections. With all the news from Iraq, Afghanistan and everywhere else, I don’t think I paid any attention. I think I must have seen a report on CNN, so he looked vaguely familiar. When I saw that photo, I wondered if he was anyone I knew.”

“He was an English mercenary, so I wouldn’t lose sleep over him, besides he’s dead now. They shot him and buried his body in the Prison graveyard.”

“Really?” I gushed. “How do you know so much?”

“It was general knowledge at the time, but I am with the police.”

“The police, wow, are you a detective?”

He nodded, looking around the concourse. “I am with a special unit; we are speaking to as many foreign visitors as we can to ascertain whether they knew the thief.”

“You think I….? Oh boy, just because I asked about the paper?”

He smiled again, but I didn’t trust him.

“No one is a suspect. You have a passport?”

I passed it over. The pages clearly showed me in Paris at the time of the theft.

“What were you doing in Paris?”

“Am I under suspicion?”

“No, I am simply eliminating you from a list of suspects.”

“I was covering a fashion show, if you must know.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Melia Hanoi Hotel.”

This time his smile was less sinister, as he handed back my passport.

“That’s one of the best, you’ll like it there, but it isn’t a true reflection of Vietnam. Our country is still trying to build itself up after the war, so the luxuries you enjoy at the hotel are not representative of the living conditions of most of the people.”