Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty: Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty. Tess Gerritsen
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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 attaché, 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