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

of decay were everywhere, from the chipped paint on the old French colonials to the skeletons of buildings left permanently unfinished. Even the Rex Hotel, luxurious by local standards, seemed to be fraying at the edges. The terrace stones were cracked. In the fish pond, three listless carp drifted like dead leaves. The rooftop swimming pool had bloomed an unhealthy shade of green. A lone Russian tourist sat on the side and dangled his legs in the murky water, as though weighing the risks of a swim.

      It occurred to Willy that her immediate situation was every bit as murky as that water. The Vietnamese obviously believed in a proper channel for everything, and without Ainh’s help, there was no way she could navigate any channel, proper or otherwise.

      What then? she thought wearily. I can’t do this alone. I need help. I need a guide. I need—

      “Now there’s a lady who looks down on her luck,” said a voice.

      She looked up to see Guy Barnard’s tanned face framed against the sunset. Her instant delight at seeing someone familiar—even him—only confirmed the utter depths of despair to which she’d sunk.

      He flashed her a smile that could have charmed the habit off a nun. “Welcome to Saigon, capital of fallen dreams. How’s it goin’, kid?”

      She sighed. “You need to ask?”

      “Nope. I’ve been through it before, running around like a headless chicken, scrounging up seals of approval for every piddly scrap of paper. This country has got bureaucracy down to an art.”

      “I could live without the pep talk, thank you.”

      “Can I buy you a beer?”

      She studied that smile of his, wondering what lay behind it. Suspecting the worst.

      Seeing her weaken, he called for two beers, then dropped into a chair and regarded her with rumpled cheerfulness.

      “I thought you weren’t due in Saigon till Wednesday,” she said.

      “Change of plans.”

      “Pretty sudden, wasn’t it?”

      “Flexibility happens to be one of my virtues.” He added, ruefully, “Maybe my only virtue.”

      The bartender brought over two frosty Heinekens. Guy waited until the man left before he spoke again.

      “They brought in some new remains from Dak To,” he said.

      “MIAs?”

      “That’s what I have to find out. I knew I’d need a few extra days to examine the bones. Besides—” he took a gulp of beer “—I was getting bored in Bangkok.”

      “Sure.”

      “No, I mean it. I was ready for a change of scenery.”

      “You left the fleshpot of the East to come here and check out a few dead soldiers?”

      “Believe it or not, I take my job seriously.” He set the bottle down on the table. “Anyway, since I happen to be in town, maybe I could help you out. Since you probably need it.”

      Something about the way he looked at her, head cocked, teeth agleam in utter self-assurance, irritated her. “I’m doing okay,” she said.

      “Are you, now? So when’s your first official meeting?”

      “Things are being arranged.”

      “What sorts of things?”

      “I don’t know. Mr. Ainh’s handling the details, and—”

      “Mr. Ainh? You don’t mean your tour guide?” He burst out laughing.

      “Just why is that so funny?” she demanded.

      “You’re right,” Guy said, swallowing his laughter. “It’s not funny. It’s pathetic. Do you want an advance look in my crystal ball? Because I can tell you exactly what’s going to happen. First thing in the morning, your guide will show up with an apologetic look on his face.”

      “Why apologetic?”

      “Because he’ll tell you the ministry is closed for the day. After all, it’s the grand and glorious holiday of July 18.”

      “Holiday? What holiday?”

      “Never mind. He’ll make something up. Then he’ll ask if you wouldn’t rather see the lacquer factory, where you can buy many beautiful gifts to bring home…”

      Now she was laughing. Those were, in fact, Mr. Ainh’s exact words.

      “Then, the following day, he’ll come up with some other reason you can’t visit the ministry. Say, they’re all sick with the swine flu or there’s a critical shortage of pencil erasers. But—you can visit the National Palace!”

      She stopped laughing. “I think I’m beginning to get your point.”

      “It’s not that the man’s deliberately sabotaging your plans. He simply knows how hopeless it is to untangle this bureaucracy. All he wants is to do his own little job, which is to be a tour guide and file innocuous reports about the nice lady tourist. Don’t expect more from him. The poor guy isn’t paid enough for what he already does.”

      “I’m not helpless. I can always start knocking on a few doors myself.”

      “Yeah, but which doors? And where are they hidden? And do you know the secret password?”

      “Guy, you’re making this country sound like a carnival funhouse.”

      “Fun is not the operative word here.”

      “What is the operative word?”

      “Chaos.” He pointed down at the street, where pedestrians and bicycles swarmed in mass anarchy. “See that? That’s how this government works. It’s every man for himself. Ministries competing with ministries, provinces with provinces. Every minor official protecting his own turf. Everyone scared to move an inch without a nod from the powers that be.” He shook his head. “Not a system for the faint of heart.”

      “That’s one thing I’ve never been.”

      “Wait till you’ve been sitting in some sweatbox of a ‘reception’ area for five hours. And your belly hurts from the bad water. And the closest bathroom is a hole in the—”

      “I get the picture.”

      “Do you?”

      “What are you suggesting I do?”

      Smiling, he sat back. “Hang around with me. I have a contact here and there. Not in the Foreign Ministry, I admit, but they might be able to help you.”

      He wants something, she thought. What is it? Though his gaze was unflinching, she sensed a new tension in his posture, saw in his eyes the anticipation rippling beneath the surface.

      “You’re being awfully helpful. Why?”

      He shrugged. “Why not?”

      “That’s hardly an answer.”

      “Maybe at heart I’m still the Boy Scout helping old ladies cross the street. Maybe I’m a nice guy.”

      “Maybe you could tell me the truth.”

      “Have you always had this problem trusting men?”

      “Yes, and don’t change the subject.”

      For a moment, he didn’t speak. He sat drumming his fingers against the beer bottle. “Okay,” he admitted. “So I fibbed a little. I was never a Boy Scout. But I meant it about helping you out. The offer stands.”

      She didn’t say a thing. For Guy, that silence, that look of skepticism, said it all. The woman