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

me for help. But here you are. What made you change your mind?”

      She didn’t answer right off. She was too busy trying not to notice that his towel was slipping. To her relief, he snatched it together just in time and fastened it more securely around his hips.

      At last she shook her head and sighed. “You were right. It’s all going exactly as you said it would. No official will talk to me. No one’ll answer my calls. They hear I’m coming and they all dive under their desks!”

      “You could try a little patience. Wait another week.”

      “Next week’s no good, either.”

      “Why?”

      “Haven’t you heard? It’s Ho Chi Minh’s birthday.”

      Guy looked heavenward. “How could I forget?”

      “So what should I do?”

      For a moment, he stood there thoughtfully rubbing his unshaven chin. Then he nodded. “Let’s talk about it.”

      Back in his room, she sat uneasily on the edge of the bed while he dressed in the bathroom. The man was a restless sleeper, judging by the rumpled sheets. The blanket had been kicked off the bed entirely, the pillows punched into formless lumps by the headboard. Her gaze settled on the nightstand, where a stack of files lay. The top one was labeled Operation Friar Tuck. Declassified. Curious, she flipped open the cover.

      “It’s the way things work in this country,” she heard him say through the bathroom door. “If you want to get from point A to point B, you don’t go in a straight line. You walk two steps to the left, two to the right, turn and walk backward.”

      “So what should I do now?”

      “The two-step. Sideways.” He came out, dressed and freshly shaved. Spotting the open file on the nightstand, he calmly closed the cover. “Sorry. Not for public view,” he said, sliding the stack of folders into his briefcase. Then he turned to her. “Now. Tell me what else is going on.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I get the feeling there’s something more. It’s eight o’clock in the morning. You can’t have battled the bureaucracy this early. What really made you change your mind about me?”

      “Oh, I haven’t changed my mind about you. You’re still a mercenary.” Her disgust seemed to hang in the air like a bad odor.

      “But now you’re willing to work with me. Why?”

      She looked down at her lap and sighed. Reluctantly she opened her purse and pulled out a slip of paper. “I found this under my door this morning.”

      He unfolded the paper. In a spidery hand was written “Die Yankee.” Just seeing those two words again made her angry. A few minutes ago, when she’d shown the message to Mr. Ainh, his only reaction was to shake his head in regret. At least Guy was an American; surely he’d share her sense of outrage.

      He handed the note back to her. “So?”

      “‘So?’” She stared at him. “I get a death threat slipped under my door. The entire Vietnamese government hides at the mention of my name. Ainh practically commands me to tour his stupid lacquer factory. And that’s all you can say? ‘So?’”

      Clucking sympathetically, he sat down beside her. Why does he have to sit so close? she thought. She tried to ignore the tingling in her leg as it brushed against his, struggled to sit perfectly straight though his weight on the mattress was making her sag toward him.

      “First of all,” he explained, “this isn’t necessarily a personal death threat. It could be merely a political statement.”

      “Oh, is that all,” she said blandly.

      “And think of the lacquer factory as a visit to the dentist. You don’t want to go, but everyone thinks you should. And as for the elusive Foreign Ministry, you wouldn’t learn a thing from those bureaucrats anyway. Speaking of bureaucrats, where’s your baby-sitter?”

      “You mean Mr. Ainh?” She sighed. “Waiting for me in the lobby.”

      “You have to get rid of him.”

      “I wish.”

      “We can’t have him around.” Rising, Guy took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Not where we’re going.”

      “Where are we going?” she demanded, following him out the door.

      “To see a friend. I think.”

      “Meaning he might not see us?”

      “Meaning I can’t be sure he’s a friend.”

      She groaned as they stepped into the elevator. “Terrific.”

      Down in the lobby, they found Ainh by the desk, waiting to ambush her. “Miss Maitland!” he called. “Please, you must hurry. We have a very busy schedule today.”

      Willy glanced at Guy, who simply shrugged and looked off in another direction. Drat the man, he was leaving it up to her. “Mr. Ainh,” she said, “about this little tour of the lacquer factory—”

      “It will be quite fascinating! But they do not take dollars, so if you wish to exchange for dong, I can—”

      “I’m afraid I don’t feel up to it,” she said flatly.

      Ainh blinked in surprise. “You are ill?”

      “Yes, I…” She suddenly noticed that Guy was shaking his head. “Uh, no, I’m not. I mean—”

      “What she means,” said Guy, “is that I offered to show her around. You know—” he winked at Ainh “—a little personal tour.”

      “P-personal?” Flushing, Ainh glanced at Willy. “But what about my tour? It is all arranged! The car, the sightseeing, a special lunch—”

      “I tell you what, pal,” said Guy, bending toward him conspiratorially. “Why don’t you take the tour?”

      “I have been on the tour,” Ainh said glumly.

      “Ah, but that was work, right? This time, why don’t you take the day off, both you and the driver. Go see the sights of Saigon. And enjoy Ms. Maitland’s lunch. After all, it’s been paid for.”

      Ainh suddenly looked interested. “A free lunch?”

      “And a beer.” Guy slipped a few dollars into the man’s breast pocket and patted the flap. “On me.” He took Willy’s arm and directed her across the lobby.

      “But, Miss Maitland!” Ainh called out bleakly.

      “Boy, what a blast you two guys’re gonna have!” Guy sounded almost envious. “Air-conditioned car. Free lunch. No schedule to tie you down.”

      Ainh followed them outside, into a wall of morning heat so thick, it made Willy draw a breath of surprise. “Miss Maitland!” he said in desperation. “This is not the way it is supposed to be done!”

      Guy turned and gave the man a solemn pat on the shoulder. “That, Mr. Ainh, is the whole idea.”

      They left the poor man standing alone on the steps, staring after them.

      “What do you think he’ll do?” whispered Willy.

      “I think,” said Guy, moving her along the crowded sidewalk, “he’s going to enjoy a free lunch.”

      She glanced back and saw that Mr. Ainh had, indeed, disappeared into the hotel. She also noticed they were being followed. A street urchin, no more than twelve years old, caught up and danced around on the hot pavement.

      “Lien-xo?” he chirped, dark eyes shining in a dirty face. They tried to ignore him, but the boy skipped along beside them, chattering all the way. His shirt