whenever a plane goes down during a classified mission. To get rid of the evidence.”
“But my father wasn’t flying a classified mission. It was a routine supply flight.”
“They were all listed as routine supply flights,” said Gerard.
“The cargo manifest listed aircraft parts,” said Guy. “Not a reason to melt the plane. What was really on that flight?”
Gerard didn’t answer.
“There was a passenger,” Willy said. “They were carrying a passenger.”
Gerard’s gaze snapped toward her. “Who told you this?”
“Luis Valdez, Dad’s cargo kicker. He bailed out as the plane went down.”
“You spoke to this man Valdez?”
“It was only a short phone call, right after he was released from the POW camp.”
“Then…he is still alive?”
She shook her head. “He shot himself the day after he got back to the States.”
Gerard began to pace around the room again, touching each piece of furniture. He reminded her of a greedy gnome fingering his treasures.
“Who was the passenger, Gerard?” asked Guy.
Gerard picked up a lacquer box, set it back down again.
“Military? Intelligence? What?”
Gerard stopped pacing. “He was a phantom, Mr. Barnard.”
“Meaning you don’t know his name?”
“Oh, he had many names, many faces. A rumor always does. Some said he was a general. Or a prince. Or a drug lord.” Turning, he stared out the curtain slit, a shriveled silhouette against the glow of light. “Whoever he was, he represented a threat to someone in a high place.”
Someone in a high place. Willy thought of the intrigue that must have swirled in Vientiane, 1970. She thought of Air America and Defense Intelligence and the CIA. Who among all those players would have felt threatened by this one unnamed Lao?
“Who do you think he was, Mr. Gerard?” she asked.
The silhouette at the window shrugged. “It makes no difference now. He’s dead. Everyone on that plane is dead.”
“Maybe not all of them. My father—”
“Your father has not been seen in twenty years. And if I were you, I would leave well enough alone.”
“But if he’s alive—”
“If he’s alive, he may not wish to be found.” Gerard turned and looked at her, his expression hidden against the backglow of the window. “A man with a price on his head has good reason to stay dead.”
Chapter Five
SHE STARED at him. “A price? I don’t understand.”
“You mean no one has told you about the bounty?”
“Bounty for what?”
“For the arrest of Friar Tuck.”
She fell instantly still. An image took shape in her mind: words typed on a file folder. Operation Friar Tuck. Declassified. She turned to Guy. “You know what he’s talking about, don’t you. Who’s Friar Tuck?”
Guy’s expression was unreadable, as if a mask had fallen over his face. “It’s nothing but a story.”
“But you had his file in your room.”
“It’s just a nickname for a renegade pilot. A legend—”
“Not just a legend,” insisted Gerard. “He was a real man, a traitor. Intelligence does not offer two-million-dollar bounties for mere legends.”
Willy’s gaze shot back to Guy. She wondered how he had the nerve—the gall—to meet her eyes. You knew, she thought. You bastard. All the time, you knew. Rage had tightened her throat almost beyond speech.
She barely managed to force out her next question, which she directed at Alain Gerard. “You think this—this renegade pilot is my father?”
“Intelligence thought so.”
“Based on what evidence? That he could fly planes? The fact that he’s not here to defend himself?”
“Based on the timing, the circumstances. In July 1970, William Maitland vanished from the face of the earth. In August of the same year, we heard the first reports of a foreign pilot flying for the enemy. Running weapons and gold.”
“But there were hundreds of foreign pilots in Laos! Friar Tuck could have been a Frenchman, a Russian, a—”
“This much we did know—he was American.”
She raised her chin. “You’re saying my father was a traitor.”
“I am telling you this only because it’s something you should know. If he’s alive, this is the reason he may not want to be found. You think you are on some sort of rescue mission, Miss Maitland, but you may be sadly mistaken. Your father could go home to a jail cell.”
In the silence that followed, she turned her gaze to Guy. He still hadn’t said a word; that alone proved his guilt. Who do you work for? she wondered. The CIA? The Ariel Group? Or your lying, miserable self?
She couldn’t stand the sight of him. Even being in the same room with him made her recoil in disgust.
She rose. “Thank you, Mr. Gerard. You’ve told me things I needed to hear. Things I didn’t expect.”
“Then you agree it’s best you drop the matter?”
“I don’t agree. You think my father’s a traitor. Obviously you’re not the only one who thinks so. But you’re all wrong.”
“And how will you prove it?” Gerard snorted. “Tell me, Miss Maitland, how will you perform this grand miracle after twenty years?”
She didn’t have an answer. The truth was, she didn’t know what her next move would be. All she knew was that she would have to do it alone.
Her spine was ramrod straight as she followed Gerard back down the hall. The whole time, she was intensely aware of Guy moving right behind her. I knew I couldn’t trust him, she thought. From the very beginning I knew it.
No one said a word until they reached the front door. There Gerard paused. Quietly he said, “Mr. Barnard? You will relay a message to Toby Wolff?”
Guy nodded. “Certainly. What’s the message?”
“Tell him he has just called
