She was so annoyed by Miss Hu’s comment that she didn’t notice Guy’s preoccupied look. Only when she saw him glance for the third time out the back window did she realize what he was focusing on: a Mercedes with darkly tinted windows was trailing right behind them. She and Guy exchanged glances.

The Mercedes followed them all the way into town. Only when they pulled up in front of the hotel did the other car pass them. It headed around the corner, its occupants obscured behind dark glass.

Willy’s door was pulled open. Heat poured in, a knockdown, drag-out heat that left her stunned.

Miss Hu stood waiting outside, her face already pearled with sweat. “The hotel is air-conditioned,” she said and added, with a note of disdain, “for the comfort of foreigners.”

As it turned out, the so-called air-conditioning was scarcely functioning. In fact, the hotel itself seemed to be sputtering along on little more than its old French colonial glory. The entry rug was ratty and faded, the lobby furniture a sad mélange of battered rosewood and threadbare cushions. While Guy checked in at the reception desk, Willy stationed herself near their suitcases and kept watch over the lobby entrance.

She wasn’t surprised when, seconds later, two Vietnamese men, both wearing dark glasses, strolled through the door. They spotted her immediately and veered off toward an alcove, where they loitered behind a giant potted fern. She could see the smoke from their cigarettes curling toward the ceiling.

“We’re all checked in,” said Guy. “Room 308. View of the city.”

Willy touched his arm. “Two men,” she whispered. “Three o’clock…”

“I see them.”

“What do we do now?”

“Ignore them.”

“But-”

“Mr. Barnard?” called Miss Hu. They both turned. The woman was waving a slip of paper. “The desk clerk says there is a telegram for you.”

Guy frowned. “I wasn’t expecting any telegram.”

“It arrived this morning in Saigon, but you had just left. The hotel called here with the message.” She handed Guy the scribbled phone memo and watched with sharp eyes as he read it.

If the message was important, Guy didn’t show it. He casually stuffed it into his pocket and, picking up the suitcases, nudged Willy into a waiting elevator.

“Not bad news?” called Miss Hu.

Guy smiled at her. “Just a note from a friend,” he said, and punched the elevator button.

Willy caught a last glimpse of the two Vietnamese men peering at them from behind the fern, and then the door slid shut. Instantly, Guy gripped her hand. Don’t say a word, she read in his eyes.

It was a silent ride to the third floor.

Up in their room, Willy watched in puzzlement as Guy circled around, discreetly running his fingers under lamp-shades and along drawers, opened the closet, searched the nightstands. Behind the headboard, he finally found what he was seeking: a wireless microphone, barely the size of a postage stamp. He left it where it was. Then he went to the window and stared down at the street.

“How flattering,” he murmured. “We rate baby-sitting service.”

She moved beside him and saw what he was looking at: the black Mercedes, parked on the street below. “What about that telegram?” she whispered.

In answer, he pulled out the slip of paper and handed it to her. She read it twice, but it made no sense.

Uncle Sy asking about you. Plans guided tour of Nam. Happy Trails. Bobbo.

Guy let the curtain flap shut and began to pace furiously around the room. By the look of him, he was thinking up a blizzard, planning some scheme.

He suddenly halted. “Do you want something for your stomach?” he asked.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Pepto Bismol might help. And you’d better lie down for a while. That old intestinal bug can get pretty damn miserable.”

“Intestinal bug?” She gave him a helpless look.

He stalked to the desk and rummaged in a drawer for a piece of hotel stationery, talking all the while. “I’ll bet it’s that seafood you ate last night. Are you still feeling really lousy?” He held up a sheet of paper on which he’d scribbled, “Yes!!!”

“Yes,” she said. “Definitely lousy. I-I think I should lie down.” She paused. “Shouldn’t I?”

He was writing again. The sheet of paper now said, “You want to go to the hospital!”

She nodded and went into the bathroom, where she groaned loudly a few times and flushed the toilet. “You know, I feel really rotten. Maybe I should see a doctor…”It struck her then, as she stood by the sink and watched the water hiss out of the faucet, exactly what he was up to. The man’s a genius, she thought with sudden admiration. Turning to look at him, she said, “Do you think we’ll find anyone who speaks English?”

She was rewarded with a thumbs-up sign.

“We could try the hospital,” he said. “Maybe it won’t be a doctor, but they should have someone who’ll understand you.”

She went to the bed and sat down, bouncing a few times to make the springs squeak. “God, I feel awful.”

He sat beside her and placed his hand on her forehead. His eyes were twinkling as he said, “Lady, you’re really hot.”

“I know,” she said gravely.

They could barely hold back their laughter.

“SHE DID NOT SEEM ILL an hour ago,” Miss Hu said as she ushered them into the limousine ten minutes later.

“The cramps came on suddenly,” said Guy.

“I would say very suddenly,” Miss Hu noted aridly.

“I think it was the seafood,” Willy whimpered from the back seat.

“You Americans,” Miss Hu sniffed. “Such delicate stomachs.”

The hospital waiting room was hot as an oven and overflowing with patients. As Willy and Guy entered, a hush instantly fell over the crowd. The only sounds were the rhythmic clack of the ceiling fan and a baby crying in its mother’s lap. Every eye was watching as the two Americans moved through the room toward the reception desk.

The Vietnamese nurse behind the desk stared in mute astonishment. Only when Miss Hu barked out a question did the nurse respond with a nervous shake of the head and a hurried answer.

“We have only Vietnamese doctors here,” translated Miss Hu. “No Europeans.”

“You have no one trained in the West?” Guy asked.

“Why, do you feel your Western medicine is superior?”

“Look, I’m not here to argue East versus West. Just find someone who speaks English. A nurse’ll do. You have English-speaking nurses, don’t you?”

Scowling, Miss Hu turned and muttered to the desk nurse, who made a few phone calls. At last Willy was led down a corridor to a private examination room. It was stocked with only the basics: an examining table, a sink, an instrument cart. Cotton balls and tongue depressors were displayed in dusty glass jars. A fly buzzed lazily around the one bare lightbulb. The nurse handed Willy a tattered gown and gestured for her to undress.

Willy had no intention of stripping while Miss Hu stood watch in the corner.

“I would appreciate some privacy,” Willy said.

The other woman didn’t move. “Mr. Barnard is staying,” she pointed out.

“No.” Willy looked at Guy. “Mr. Barnard is leaving.”

“In fact, I was just on my way out,” said Guy, turning toward the door. He added, for Miss Hu’s benefit, “You know, Comrade, in America it’s considered quite rude to watch while someone undresses.”

“I was only trying to confirm what I’ve heard about Western women’s undergarments,” Miss Hu insisted as she and the nurse followed Guy out the door.

“What, exactly, have you heard?” asked Guy.

“That they are designed with the sole purpose of arousing prurient interest from the male sex.”

“Comrade,” said Guy with a grin, “I would be delighted to share my knowledge on the topic of ladies’ undergarments…”

The door closed, leaving Willy alone in the room. She changed into the gown and sat on the table to wait.