Читать книгу Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty: Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty - Тесс Герритсен, Tess Gerritsen - Страница 14

SHE HAD NO CHOICE. She scrambled over the railing and dropped onto the grating. It sagged under her weight, lowering her heart-stoppingly close to the deadly blades. A rusted fragment crumbled off into the fan; the clatter of metal was deafening.

She inched her way over the grate, heading for a safe island of rooftop. It was only a few steps across, but it felt like miles of tightrope suspended over oblivion. Her legs were trembling as she finally stepped off the grate. It was a dead end; beyond lay a sheer drop. And a crumbling expanse of grating was all that separated her from the killers.

The two men glanced around in frustration, searching for a safe way to reach her. There was no other route; they would have to cross the vent. But the grating had barely supported her weight; these men were far heavier. She looked at the deadly whirl of the blades. They wouldn’t risk it, she thought.

But to her disbelief, one of the men climbed over the railing and eased himself onto the vent. The mesh sagged but held. He stared at her over the spinning blades, and she saw in his eyes the impassive gaze of a man who’d simply come to do his job.

Trapped, she thought. Dear God, I’m trapped!

She screamed again, but her cry of terror was lost in the fan’s roar.

He was halfway across, his knife poised. She clutched her knife and backed away to the very edge of the roof. She had two choices: a four-story drop to the pavement below, or hand-to-hand combat with an experienced assassin. Both prospects seemed equally hopeless.

She crouched, knife in trembling hand, to slash, to claw—anything to stay alive. The man took another step. The blade moved closer.

Then gunfire ripped the night.

Willy stared in bewilderment as the killer clutched his belly and looked down at his bloody hand, his face a mask of astonishment. Then, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, he crumpled. As dead weight hit the weakened grating, Willy closed her eyes and cringed.

She never saw his body fall through. But she heard the squeal of metal, felt the wild shuddering of the fan blades. She collapsed to her knees, retching into the darkness below.

When the heaving finally stopped, she forced her head up.

Her other attacker had vanished.

Across the courtyard, on the opposite walkway, something gleamed. The barrel of a gun being lowered. A small face peering at her over the railing. She struggled to make sense of why the boy was there, why he had just saved her life. Stumbling to her feet, she whispered, “Oliver?”

The boy merely put a finger to his lips. Then, like a ghost, he slipped away into the darkness.

Dazed, she heard shouts and the thud of approaching footsteps.

“Willy! Are you all right?”

She turned and saw Guy. And she heard the panic in his voice.

“Don’t move! I’ll come get you.”

“No!” she cried. “The grate—it’s broken—”

For a moment, he studied the spinning blades. Then, glancing around, he spotted a workman’s ladder propped beneath a broken window. He dragged it to the railing, hoisted it over and slid it horizontally across the broken grate. Then he eased himself over the railing, carefully stepped onto a rung and extended his arm to Willy. “I’m right here,” he said. “Put your left foot on the ladder and grab my hand. I won’t let you fall, I swear it. Come on, sweetheart. Just reach for my hand.”

She couldn’t look down at the fan blades. She looked across them at Guy’s face, tense and gleaming with sweat. At his hand, reaching for her. And in that instant she knew, without a shred of doubt, that he would catch her. That she could trust him with her life.

She took a breath for courage, then took the step forward, over the whirling blades.

Instantly his hand locked over hers. For a split second she teetered. Guy’s rigid grasp steadied her. Slowly, jerkily, she lunged forward onto the rung where he balanced.

“I’ve got you!” he yelled as he swept her into his arms, away from the yawning vent. He swung her easily over the railing onto the walkway, then dropped down beside her. He pulled her into the safety of his arms.

“It’s all right,” he murmured over and over into her hair. “Everything’s all right…”

Only then, as she felt his heart pounding against hers, did she realize how terrified he’d been for her.

She was shaking so hard she could barely stand on her own two legs. It didn’t matter. She knew the arms now wrapped around her would never let her fall.

They both stiffened as a harsh command was issued in Vietnamese. The people gathered about them quickly stepped aside to let a policeman through. Willy squinted as a blinding light shone in her eyes. The flashlight’s beam shifted and froze on the air-conditioning vent. From the spectators came a collective gasp of horror.

“Dear God,” she heard Dodge Hamilton whisper. “What a bloody mess.”

MR. AINH WAS SWEATING. He was also hungry and tired, and he needed badly to use the toilet. But all these concerns would have to wait. He had learned that much from the war: patience. Victory comes to those who endure. This was what he kept saying to himself as he sat in his hard chair and stared down at the wooden table.

“We have been careless, Comrade.” The minister’s voice was soft, no more than a whisper; but then, the voice of power had no need to shout.

Slowly Ainh raised his head. The man sitting across from him had eyes like smooth, sparkling river stones. Though the face was wrinkled and the hair hung in silver wisps as delicate as cobwebs, the eyes were those of a young man—bold and black and brilliant. Ainh felt their gaze slice through him.

“The death of an American tourist would be most embarrassing,” said the minister.

Ainh could only nod in meek agreement.

“You are certain Miss Maitland is uninjured?”

Ainh cleared his throat. Nodded again.

The minister’s voice, so soft just a moment before, took on a razor’s edge. “This Barnard fellow—he prevented an international incident, something our own people seem incapable of.”

“But we had no warning, no reason to think this would happen.”

“The attack in Bangkok—was that not a warning?”

“A robbery attempt! That’s what the report—”

“And reports are never wrong, are they?” The minister’s smile was disconcertingly bland. “First Bangkok. Then tonight. I wonder what our little American tourist has gotten herself into.”

“The two attacks may not be connected.”

“Everything, Comrade, is connected.” The minister sat very still, thinking. “And what about Mr. Barnard? Are he and Miss Maitland—” the minister paused delicately “—involved?”

“I think not. She called him a…what is that American expression? A jerk.”

The minister laughed. “Ah. Mr. Barnard has trouble with the ladies!”

There was a knock on the door. An official entered, handed a report to the minister and respectfully withdrew.

“There is progress in the case?” inquired Ainh.

The minister looked up. “Of a sort. They were able to piece together fragments of the dead man’s identity card. It seems he was already well-known to the police.”

“Then that explains it!” said Ainh. “Some of these thugs will do anything for a few thousand dong.”

“This was no robbery.” The minister handed the report to Ainh. “He has connections to the old regime.”

Ainh scanned the page. “I see mention only of a woman cousin—a factory worker.” He paused, then looked up in surprise. “A mixed blood.”

The minister nodded. “She is being questioned now. Shall we look in on her?”

CHANTAL WAS SLOUCHED ON A wooden bench, aiming lethal glares at the policeman in charge of questioning.

“I have done nothing!” she spat out. “Why should I want anyone dead? An American bitch, you say? What, do you think I am crazy? I have been home all night! Talk to the old man who lives above me! Ask him who’s been playing my radio all night! Ask him why he’s been beating on my ceiling, the old crank! Oh, but I could tell you stories about him.”

“You accuse an old man?” said the policeman. “You are the counterrevolutionary! You and your cousin!”

“I hardly know my cousin.”

“You were working together.”

Chantal snorted. “I work in a factory. I have nothing to do with him.”

The policeman swung a bag onto the table. He took out the items, placed them in front of her. “Caviar. Champagne. Pâté. We found these in your cupboards. How does a factory worker afford these things?”

Chantal’s lips tightened, but she said nothing.

The policeman smiled. He gestured to a guard and Chantal, rigidly silent, was led from the room.

The policeman then turned respectfully to the minister, who, along with Ainh, was watching the proceedings. “As you can see, Minister Tranh, she is uncooperative. But give us time. We will think of a way to—”

“Let her go,” said the minister.

The policeman looked startled. “I assure you, she can be made to talk.”

Minister Tranh smiled. “There are other ways to get information. Release her. Then wait for the fly to drift back to the honeypot.”

The policeman left, shaking his head. But, of course, he would do as ordered. After all, Minister Tranh had far more experience in such matters. Hadn’t the old fox honed his skills on years of wartime espionage?

For a long time, the minister sat thinking. Then he picked up the champagne bottle and squinted at the label. “Ah. Taittinger.” He sighed. “A favorite from my days in Paris.” Gently he set the bottle back down and looked at Ainh. “I sense that Miss Maitland has blundered into something dangerous. Perhaps she is asking too many questions. Stirring up dragons from the past.”

“You mean her father?” Ainh shook his head. “That is a very old dragon.”

To which the minister said softly, “But perhaps not a vanquished one.”

A LARGE BLACK COCKROACH crawled across the table. One of the guards slapped it with a newspaper, brushed the corpse onto the floor and calmly went on writing. Above him, a ceiling fan whirred in the heat, fluttering papers on the desk.

“Once again, Miss Maitland,” said the officer in charge. “Tell me what happened.”

“I’ve told you everything.”

“I think you have left something out.”

“Nothing. I’ve left nothing out.”

“Yes, you have. There was a gunman.”

“I saw no gunman.”

“We have witnesses. They heard a shot. Who fired the gun?”

“I told you, I didn’t see anyone. The grating was weak—he fell through.”

“Why are you lying?”

Her chin shot up. “Why do you insist I’m lying?”

“Because we both know you are.”

“Lay off her!” Guy cut in. “She’s told you everything she knows.”

The officer turned, looked at Guy. “You will kindly remain silent, Mr. Barnard.”

“And you’ll cut out the Gestapo act! You’ve been questioning her for two hours now. Can’t you see she’s exhausted?”

“Perhaps it is time you left.”

Guy wasn’t about to back down. “She’s an American. You can’t hold her indefinitely!”

The officer looked at Willy, then at Guy. He gave a nonchalant shrug. “She will be released.”

“When?”

“When she tells the truth.” Turning, he walked out.

“Hang in,” Guy muttered. “We’ll get you out of here yet.” He followed the officer into the next room, slamming the door behind him.

The arguing went on for ten minutes. She could hear them shouting behind the door. At least Guy still had the strength to shout; she could barely hold her head up.

When Guy returned at last, she could see from his look of disgust that he’d gotten nowhere. He dropped wearily onto the bench beside her and rubbed his eyes.

“What do they want from me?” she asked. “Why can’t they just leave me alone?”

“I get the feeling they’re waiting for something. Some sort of approval…”

“Whose?”

“Hell if I know.”

A rolled up newspaper whacked the table. Willy looked over and saw the guard flick away another dead roach. She shuddered.

It was midnight.

At 1:00 a.m., Mr. Ainh appeared, looking as sallow as an old bed sheet. Willy was too numb to move from the bench. She simply sat there, propped against Guy’s shoulder, and let the two men do the talking.

“We are very sorry for the inconvenience,” said Ainh, sounding genuinely contrite. “But you must understand—”

“Inconvenience?” Guy snapped. “Ms. Maitland was nearly killed earlier tonight, and she’s been kept here for three hours now. What the hell’s going on?”

“The situation is…unusual. A robbery attempt—on a foreigner, no less—well…” He shrugged helplessly.

Guy was incredulous. “You’re calling this an attempted robbery?”

“What would you call it?”

“A cover-up.”

Ainh shuffled uneasily. Turning, he exchanged a few words in Vietnamese with the guard. Then he gave Willy a polite bow. “The police say you are free to leave, Miss Maitland. On behalf of the Vietnamese government, I apologize for your most unfortunate experience. What happened does not in any way reflect on our high regard and warm feelings for the American people. We hope this will not spoil the remainder of your visit.”

Guy couldn’t help a laugh. “Why should it? It was just a little murder attempt.”

“In the morning,” Ainh went on quickly, “you are free to continue your tour.”

“Subject to what restrictions?” Guy asked.

“No restrictions.” Ainh cleared his throat and made a feeble attempt to smile. “Contrary to your government propaganda, Mr. Barnard, we are a reasonable people. We have nothing to hide.”

To which Guy answered flatly, “Or so it seems.”

“I DON’T GET IT. First they run you through the wringer. Then they hand you the keys to the country. It doesn’t make sense.”

Willy stared out the taxi window as the streets of Saigon glided past. Here and there, a lantern flickered in the darkness. A noodle vendor huddled on the sidewalk beside his steaming cart. In an open doorway, a beaded curtain shuddered, and in the dim room beyond, sleeping children could be seen, curled up like kittens on their mats.

“Nothing makes sense,” she whispered. “Not this country. Or the people. Or anything that’s happened…”

She was trembling. The horror of everything that had happened that night suddenly burst through the numbing dam of exhaustion. Even Guy’s arm, which had magically materialized around her shoulders, couldn’t keep away the unnamed terrors of the night.

He pulled her against his chest, and only when she inhaled that comfortable smell of fatigue, felt the slow and steady beat of his heart, did her trembling finally stop. He kept whispering, “It’s all right, Willy. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She felt his kiss, gentle as rain, on her forehead.

When the driver stopped in front of the hotel, Guy had to coax her out of the car. He led her through the nightmarish glare of the lobby. He was the pillar that supported her in the elevator. And it was his arm that guided her down the shadowed walkway and past the air-conditioning vent, now ominously silent. He didn’t even ask her if she wanted his company for the night; he simply opened the door to his room, led her inside and sat her down on his bed. Then he locked the door and slid a chair in front of it.

In the bathroom, he soaked a washcloth with warm water. Then he came back out, sat down beside her on the bed and gently wiped her smudged face. Her cheeks were pale. He had the insane urge to kiss her, to breathe some semblance of life back into her body. He knew she wouldn’t fight him; she didn’t have the strength. But it wouldn’t be right, and he wasn’t the kind of man who’d take advantage of the situation, of her.

“There,” he murmured, brushing back her hair. “All better.”

She stirred and gazed up at him with wide, stunned eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For…” She paused, searching for the right words. “For being here.”

He touched her face. “I’ll be here all night. I won’t leave you alone. If that’s what you want.”

She nodded. It hurt him to see her look so tired, so defeated. She’s getting to me, he thought. This isn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t what I expected.

He could see, from the brightness of her eyes, that she was trying not to cry. He slid his arm around her shoulders.

“You’ll be safe, Willy,” he whispered into the softness of her hair. “You’ll be going home in the morning. Even if I have to strap you into that plane myself, you’ll be going home.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“My father…”

“Forget him. It isn’t worth it.”

“I made a promise…”

“All you promised your mother was an answer. Not a body. Not some official report, stamped and certified. Just a simple answer. So give her one. Tell her he’s dead, tell her he died in the crash. It’s probably the truth.”

“I can’t lie to her.”

“You have to.” He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Willy, someone’s trying to kill you. They’ve flubbed it twice. But what happens the third time? The fourth?”

She shook her head. “I’m not worth killing. I don’t know anything!”

“Maybe it’s not what you know. It’s what you might find out.”

Sniffling, she looked up in bewilderment. “That my father’s dead? Or alive? What difference does it make to anyone?”

He sighed, a sound of overwhelming weariness. “I don’t know. If we could talk to Oliver, find out who he works for—”

“He’s just a kid!”

“Obviously not. He could be sixteen, seventeen. Old enough to be an agent.”

“For the Vietnamese?”

“No. If he was one of theirs, why’d he vanish? Why did the police keep hounding you about him?”

She huddled on the bed, her confusion deepening. “He saved my life. And I don’t even know why.”

There it was again, that raw edge of vulnerability, shimmering in her eyes. She might be Wild Bill Maitland’s brat, but she was also a woman, and Guy was having a hard time concentrating on the problem at hand. Why was someone trying to kill her?

He was too tired to think. It was late, she was so near, and there was the bed, just waiting.

He reached up and gently stroked her face. She seemed to sense immediately what was about to happen. Even though her whole body remained stiff, she didn’t fight him. The instant their lips met, he felt a shock leap through her, through him, as though they’d both been hit by some glorious bolt of lightning. My God, he thought in surprise. You wanted this as much as I did…

He heard her murmur, “No,” against his mouth, but he knew she didn’t mean it, so he went on kissing her until he knew that if he didn’t stop right then and there, he’d do something he really didn’t want to do.

Oh, yes I do, he thought with sudden abandon. I want her more than I’ve wanted any other woman.

She put her hand against his chest and murmured another “No,” this one fainter. He would have ignored it, too, had it not been for the look in her eyes. They were wide and confused, the eyes of a woman pushed to the brink by fear and exhaustion. This wasn’t the way he wanted her. Maddening as she could be, he wanted the living, breathing, real Willy Maitland in his arms.

He released her. They sat on the bed, not speaking for a while, just looking at each other with a shared sense of quiet astonishment.

“Why—why did you do that?” she asked weakly.

“You looked like you needed a kiss.”

“Not from you.”

“From someone, then. It’s been a while since you’ve been kissed. Hasn’t it?”

She didn’t answer, and he knew he’d guessed the truth. Hell, what a waste, he thought, his gaze dropping briefly to that perfect little mouth. He managed a disinterested laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

Willy stared at his grinning face and wondered, Is it so obvious? Not only hadn’t she been kissed in a long time, she hadn’t ever been kissed like that. He knew exactly how to do it; he’d probably had years of practice with other women. For some insane reason, she found herself wondering how she compared, found herself hating every woman he’d ever kissed before her, hating even more every woman he’d kiss after her.

She flung herself down on the bed and turned her back on him. “Oh, leave me alone!” she cried. “I can’t deal with this! I can’t deal with you. I’m tired. I just want to sleep.”

He didn’t say anything. She felt him smooth her hair. It was nothing more than a brush of his fingers, but somehow, that one touch told her that he wouldn’t leave, that he’d be there all night, watching over her. He rose from the bed and switched off the lamp. She lay very still in the darkness, listening to him move around the room. She heard him check the windows, then the door, testing how firmly the chair was wedged against it. Then, apparently satisfied, he went into the bathroom, and she heard water running in the sink.

She was still awake when he came back to bed and stretched out beside her. She lay there, worrying that he’d kiss her again and hoping desperately that he would.

“Guy?” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“I’m scared.”

He reached for her through the darkness. Willingly, she let him pull her against his bare chest. He smelled of soap and safety. Yes, that’s what it was. Safety.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he whispered. “Even if you are Wild Bill Maitland’s kid.”

As if she had a choice, she thought as she lay in his arms. The sad part was, she’d never wanted to be the daughter of a legend. What she’d wanted from Wild Bill wasn’t valor or daring or the reflected glory of a hero.

What she’d wanted most of all was a father.

SIANG CROUCHED MOTIONLESS in a stinking mud puddle and stared up the road at Chantal’s building. Two hours had passed and the man was still there by the curb. Siang could see his vague form huddled in the darkness. A police agent, no doubt, and not a very good one. Was that a snore rumbling in the night? Yes, Siang thought, definitely a snore. How fortunate that surveillance was always relegated to those least able to withstand its monotony.

Siang decided to make his move.

He withdrew his knife. Noiselessly he edged out of the alley and circled around, slipping from shadow to shadow along the row of hootches. Barely five yards from his goal, he froze as the man’s snores shuddered and stopped. The shadow’s head lifted, shaking off sleep.

Siang closed in, yanked the man’s head up by the hair and slit the throat.

There was no cry, only a gurgle, and then the hiss of a last breath escaping the dead man’s lungs. Siang dragged the body around to the back of the building and rolled it into a drainage ditch. Then he slipped through an open window into Chantal’s flat.

He found her asleep. She awakened instantly as he clapped his hand over her mouth.

“You!” she ground out through his fingers. “Damn you, you got me in trouble!”

“What did you tell the police?”

“Get away from me!”

“What did you tell them?”

She batted away his hand. “I didn’t tell them anything!”

“You’re lying.”

“You think I’m stupid? You think I’d tell them I have friends in the CIA?”

He released her. As she sat up, the silky heat of her breast brushed against his arm. So the old whore still slept naked, he thought with an automatic stirring of desire.

She rose from the bed and pulled on a robe.

“Don’t turn on the lights,” he said.

“There was a man outside—a police agent. What did you do with him?”

“I took care of him.”

“And the body?”

“In the ditch out back.”

“Oh, nice, Siang. Very nice. Now they’ll blame me for that, too.” She struck a match and lit a cigarette. By the flame’s brief glow, he could see her face framed by a tangle of black hair. In the semidarkness she still looked tempting, young and soft and succulent.

The match went out. He asked, “What happened at the police station?”

She let out a slow breath. The smell of exhaled smoke filled the darkness. “They asked about my cousin. They say he’s dead. Is that true?”

“What do they know about me?”

“Is Winn really dead?”

Siang paused. “It couldn’t be helped.”

Chantal laughed. Softly at first, then with wild abandon. “She did that, did she? The American bitch? You cannot finish off even a woman? Oh, Siang, you must be slipping!”

He felt like hitting her, but he controlled the urge. Chantal was right. He must be slipping.

She began to pace the room, her movements as sure as a cat’s in the darkness. “The police are interested. Very interested. And I saw others there—Party members, I think—watching the interrogation. What have you gotten me into, Siang?”

He shrugged. “Give me a cigarette.”

She whirled on him in rage. “Get your own cigarettes! You think I have money to waste on you?”

“You’ll get the money. All you want.”

“You don’t know how much I want.”