The Vietnamese government was turning over three sets, and Guy’s job was to confirm the skeletons were non-Vietnamese and to give each one a name, rank and serial number. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant job, but one that had to be done.
He set aside the second file and reached for the next.
This one didn’t contain a photograph; it was a supple-mentary file, one he’d reluctantly added to his briefcase at the last minute. The cover was stamped Confidential, then, a year ago, restamped Declassified. He opened the file and frowned at the first page.
Code Name: Friar Tuck
Status: Open (Current as of 10/85)
File Contains: 1. Summary of Witness Reports
2. Possible Identities
3. Search Status
Friar Tuck. A legend known to every soldier who’d fought in Nam. During the war, Guy had assumed those tales of a rogue American pilot flying for the enemy were mere fantasy.
Then, a few weeks ago, he’d learned otherwise.
He’d been at his desk at the Army Lab when two men, representatives of an organization called the Ariel Group, had appeared in his office. “We have a proposition,” they’d said. “We know you’re visiting Nam soon, and we want you to look for a war criminal.” The man they were seeking was Friar Tuck.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Guy had laughed. “I’m not a military cop. And there’s no such man. He’s a fairy tale.”
In answer, they’d handed him a twenty-thousand-dollar check—“for expenses,” they’d said. There’d be more to come if he brought the traitor back to justice.
“And if I don’t want the job?” he’d asked.
“You can hardly refuse” was their answer. Then they’d told Guy exactly what they knew about him, about his past, the thing he’d done in the war. A brutal secret that could destroy him, a secret he’d kept hidden away behind a wall of fear and self-loathing. They told him exactly what he could expect if it came to light. The hard glare of publicity. The trial. The jail cell.
They had him cornered. He took the check and awaited the next contact.
The day before he left Honolulu, this file had arrived special delivery from Washington. Without looking at it, he’d slipped it into his briefcase.
Now he read it for the first time, pausing at the page listing possible identities. Several names he recognized from his stack of MIA files, and it struck him as unfair, this list. These men were missing in action and probably dead; to brand them as possible traitors was an insult to their memories.
One by one, he went over the names of those voiceless pilots suspected of treason. Halfway down the list, he stopped, focusing on the entry “William T. Maitland, pilot, Air America.” Beside it was an asterisk and, below, the footnote: “Refer to File #M-70-4163, Defense Intelligence. (Classified.)”
William T. Maitland, he thought, trying to remember where he’d heard the name. Maitland, Maitland.
Then he thought of the woman at Kistner’s villa, the little blonde with the magnificent legs. I’m here on family business, she’d said. For that she’d consulted General Joe Kistner, a man whose connections to Defense Intelligence were indisputable.
See you around, Willy Maitland.
It was too much of a coincidence. And yet…
He went back to the first page and reread the file on Friar Tuck, beginning to end. The section on Search Status he read twice. Then he rose from the bed and began to pace the room, considering his options. Not liking any of them.
He didn’t believe in using people. But the stakes were sky-high, and they were deeply, intensely personal. How many men have their own little secrets from the war? he wondered. Secrets we can’t talk about? Secrets that could destroy us?
He closed the file. The information in this folder wasn’t enough; he needed the woman’s help.
But am I cold-blooded enough to use her?
Can I afford not to? whispered the voice of necessity.
It was an awful decision to make. But he had no choice.
IT WAS 5:00 P.M., AND the Bong Bong Club was not yet in full swing. Up onstage, three women, bodies oiled and gleaming, writhed together like a trio of snakes. Music blared from an old stereo speaker, a relentlessly primitive beat that made the very darkness shudder.
From his favorite corner table, Siang watched the action, the men sipping drinks, the waitresses dangling after tips. Then he focused on the stage, on the girl in the middle. She was special. Lush hips, meaty thighs, a pink, carnivorous tongue. He couldn’t define what it was about her eyes, but she had that look. The numeral 7 was pinned on her G-string. He would have to inquire later about number seven.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Siang.”
Siang looked up to see the man standing in the shadows. It never failed to impress him, the size of that man. Even now, twenty years after their first meeting, Siang could not help feeling he was a child in the presence of this giant.
The man ordered a beer and sat down at the table. He watched the stage for a moment. “A new act?” he asked.
“The one in the middle is new.”
“Ah, yes, very nice. Your type, is she?”
“I will have to find out.” Siang took a sip of whiskey, his gaze never leaving the stage. “You said you had a job for me.”
“A small matter.”
“I hope that does not mean a small reward.”
The man laughed softly. “No, no. Have I ever been less than generous?”
“What is the name?”
“A woman.” The man slid a photograph onto the table. “Her name is Willy Maitland. Thirty-two years old. Five foot two, dark blond hair cut short, gray eyes. Staying at the Oriental Hotel.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
Siang paused. “An unusual request.”
“There is some…urgency.”
Ah. The price goes up, thought Siang. “Why?” he asked.
“She departs for Saigon tomorrow morning. That leaves you only tonight.”
Siang nodded and looked back at the stage. He was pleased to see that the girl in the middle, number seven, was looking straight at him. “That should be time enough,” he said.
WILLY MAITLAND WAS standing at the river’s edge, staring down at the swirling water.
From across the dining terrace, Guy spotted her, a tiny figure leaning at the railing, her short hair fluffing in the wind. From the hunch of her shoulders, the determined focus of her gaze, he got the impression she wanted to be left alone. Stopping at the bar, he picked up a beer—Oranjeboom, a good Dutch brand he hadn’t tasted in years. He stood there a moment, watching her, savoring the touch of the frosty bottle against his cheek.
She still hadn’t moved. She just kept gazing down at the river, as though hypnotized by something she saw in the muddy depths. He moved across the terrace toward her, weaving past empty tables and chairs, and eased up beside her at the railing. He marveled at the way her hair seemed to reflect the red and gold sparks of sunset.
“Nice view,” he said.
She glanced at him. One look, utterly uninterested, was all she gave him. Then she turned away.
He set his beer on the railing. “Thought I’d check back with you. See if you’d