LITMIR.BIZ

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      “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

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