Why was the Ariel Group involved?

That was the other part of the puzzle-the Ariel Group. Guy mentally replayed that visit they’d paid him two weeks ago. The two men who’d appeared in his office had been unremarkable: clean shaven, dark suits, nondescript ties, the sort of faces you’d forget the instant they walked out your door. Only when they’d presented the check for twenty thousand dollars did he sit up and take notice. Whoever they were, they had cash to burn. And there was more money waiting-a lot more-if only he’d do them one small favor: locate a certain pilot known as Friar Tuck. “Your patriotic duty,” they’d called it. The man was a traitor, a red-blooded American who’d gone over to the other side. Still, Guy had hesitated. It wasn’t his kind of job. He wasn’t a bounty hunter.

That’s when they’d played their trump card.

Ariel, Ariel. He kept mulling over the name. Something Biblical. Lionlike men. Odd name for a vets organization. If that’s what they were.

Ariel wasn’t the only group hunting the elusive Friar Tuck. The CIA had a bounty on the man. For all Guy knew, the Vietnamese, the French and the men from Mars were after the pilot, as well.

And at the very eye of the hurricane was naive, stubborn, impossible Willy Maitland.

That she was so damnably attractive only made things worse. She was a maddening combination of toughness and vulnerability, and he’d been torn between using her and protecting her. Did any of that make sense?

The rhythmic thud of disco music drifted up from a lower floor. He considered heading downstairs to find some willing dance partner and trample a few toes. As he took another swallow of beer, a familiar figure passed through his peripheral vision. Turning, he saw Willy head for a table near the railing. He wondered if she’d consider joining him for a drink.

Obviously not, he decided, seeing how determinedly she was ignoring him. She stared off at the night, her back rigid, her gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. A strand of tawny hair slid over her cheek, and she tucked it behind her ear, a tight little gesture that made him think of a schoolmarm.

He decided to ignore her, too. But the more fiercely he tried to shove all thought of her from his mind, the more her image seemed to burn into his brain. Even as he focused his gaze on the bartender’s dwindling bottle of Stolichnaya, he felt her presence, like a crackling fire radiating somewhere behind him.

What the hell. He’d give it one more try.

He shoved to his feet and strode across the rooftop.

Willy sensed his approach but didn’t bother to look up, even when he grabbed a chair, sat down and leaned across the table.

“I still think we can work together,” he said.

She sniffed. “I doubt it.”

“Can’t we at least talk about it?”

“I don’t have a thing to say to you, Mr. Barnard.”

“So it’s back to Mr. Barnard.”

Her frigid gaze met his across the table. “I could call you something else. I could call you a-”

“Can we skip the sweet talk? Look, I’ve been to see a friend of mine-”

“You have friends? Amazing.”

“Nate was part of the welcome-home team back in ’75. Met a lot of returning POWs. Including the men from Tuyen Quan.”

Suddenly she looked interested. “He knew Luis Valdez?”

“No. Valdez was routed through classified debriefing. No one got near him. But Valdez had a cellmate in Tuyen Quan, a man named Sam Lassiter. Nate says Lassiter didn’t go home.”

“He died?”

“He never left the country.”

She leaned forward, her whole body suddenly rigid with excitement. “He’s still here in Nam?”

“Was a few years ago anyway. In Cantho. It’s a river town in the Delta, about a hundred and fifty kilometers southwest of here.”

“Not very far,” she said, her mind obviously racing. “I could leave tomorrow morning…get there by afternoon…”

“And just how are you going to get there?”

“What do you mean, how? By car, of course.”

“You think Mr. Ainh’s going to let you waltz off on your own?”

“That’s what bribes are for. Some people will do anything for a buck. Won’t they?”

He met her hard gaze with one equally unflinching. “Forget the damn money. Don’t you see someone’s trying to use both of us? I want to know why.” He leaned forward, his voice soft, coaxing. “I’ve made arrangements for a driver to Cantho first thing in the morning. We can tell Ainh I’ve invited you along for the ride. You know, just another tourist visiting the-”

She laughed. “You must think I have the IQ of a turnip. Why should I trust you? Bounty hunter. Opportunist. Jerk.”

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” cut in a cheery voice.

Dodge Hamilton, drink in hand, beamed down at them. He was greeted with dead silence.

“Oh, dear. Am I intruding?”

“Not at all,” Willy said with a sigh, pulling a chair out for the ubiquitous Englishman. No doubt he wanted company for his misery, and she would do fine. They could commiserate a little more about his lost story and her lost father.

“No, really, I wouldn’t dream of-”

“I insist.” Willy tossed a lethal glance at Guy. “Mr. Barnard was just leaving.”

Hamilton’s gaze shifted from Guy to the offered chair. “Well, if you insist.” He settled uneasily into the chair, set his glass down on the table and looked at Willy. “What I wanted to ask you, Miss Maitland, is whether you’d consent to an interview.”

“Me? Why on earth?”

“I decided on a new focus for my Saigon story-a daughter’s search for her father. Such a touching angle. A sentimental journey into-”

“Bad idea,” Guy said, cutting in.

“Why?” asked Hamilton.

“It…has no passion,” he improvised. “No romance. No excitement.”

“Of course, there’s excitement. A missing father-”

“Hamilton.” Guy leaned forward. “No.”

“He’s asking me,” Willy said. “After all, it’s about my father.”

Guy’s gaze swung around to her. “Willy,” he said quietly, “think.”

“I’m thinking a little publicity might open a few doors.”

“More likely it’d close doors. The Vietnamese hate to hang out their dirty laundry. What if they know what happened to your father, and it wasn’t a nice ending? They’re not going to want the details all over the London papers. It’d be much easier to throw you out of the country.”

“Believe me,” said Hamilton, “I can be discreet.”

“A discreet reporter. Right,” Guy muttered.

“Not a word would be printed till she’s left the country.”

“The Vietnamese aren’t dumb. They’d find out what you were working on.”

“Then I’ll give them a cover story. Something to throw them off the track.”

“Excuse me…” Willy said politely.

“The matter’s touchier than you realize, Hamilton,” Guy said.

“I’ve covered delicate matters before. When I say something’s off the record, I keep it off the record.”

Willy rose to her feet. “I give up. I’m going to bed.”

Guy looked up. “You can’t go to bed. We haven’t finished talking.”

“You and I have definitely finished talking.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“What about my story?”

“Hamilton,” she said, “if it’s dirty laundry you’re looking for, why don’t you interview him?” She pointed to Guy. Then she turned and walked away.

Hamilton looked at Guy. “What dirty laundry do you have?”

Guy merely smiled.

He was still smiling as he crumpled his beer can in his bare hands.

LORD, DELIVER ME FROM THE jerks of the world, Willy thought wearily as she stepped into the elevator. The doors slid closed. Above all, deliver me from Guy Barnard.

Leaning back, she closed her eyes and waited for the elevator to creep down to the fourth floor. It moved at a snail’s pace, like everything else in this country. The stale air was rank with the smell of liquor and sweat. Through the creak of the cables she could hear a faint squeaking, high in the elevator shaft. Bats. She’d seen them the night before, flapping over the courtyard. Wonderful. Bats and Guy Barnard. Could a girl ask for anything more?