style="font-size:15px;"> “Are you, now? So when’s your first official meeting?”
“Things are being arranged.”
“What sorts of things?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Ainh’s handling the details, and—”
“Mr. Ainh? You don’t mean your tour guide?” He burst out laughing.
“Just why is that so funny?” she demanded.
“You’re right,” Guy said, swallowing his laughter. “It’s not funny. It’s pathetic. Do you want an advance look in my crystal ball? Because I can tell you exactly what’s going to happen. First thing in the morning, your guide will show up with an apologetic look on his face.”
“Why apologetic?”
“Because he’ll tell you the ministry is closed for the day. After all, it’s the grand and glorious holiday of July 18.”
“Holiday? What holiday?”
“Never mind. He’ll make something up. Then he’ll ask if you wouldn’t rather see the lacquer factory, where you can buy many beautiful gifts to bring home…”
Now she was laughing. Those were, in fact, Mr. Ainh’s exact words.
“Then, the following day, he’ll come up with some other reason you can’t visit the ministry. Say, they’re all sick with the swine flu or there’s a critical shortage of pencil erasers. But—you can visit the National Palace!”
She stopped laughing. “I think I’m beginning to get your point.”
“It’s not that the man’s deliberately sabotaging your plans. He simply knows how hopeless it is to untangle this bureaucracy. All he wants is to do his own little job, which is to be a tour guide and file innocuous reports about the nice lady tourist. Don’t expect more from him. The poor guy isn’t paid enough for what he already does.”
“I’m not helpless. I can always start knocking on a few doors myself.”
“Yeah, but which doors? And where are they hidden? And do you know the secret password?”
“Guy, you’re making this country sound like a carnival funhouse.”
“Fun is not the operative word here.”
“What is the operative word?”
“Chaos.” He pointed down at the street, where pedestrians and bicycles swarmed in mass anarchy. “See that? That’s how this government works. It’s every man for himself. Ministries competing with ministries, provinces with provinces. Every minor official protecting his own turf. Everyone scared to move an inch without a nod from the powers that be.” He shook his head. “Not a system for the faint of heart.”
“That’s one thing I’ve never been.”
“Wait till you’ve been sitting in some sweatbox of a ‘reception’ area for five hours. And your belly hurts from the bad water. And the closest bathroom is a hole in the—”
“I get the picture.”
“Do you?”
“What are you suggesting I do?”
Smiling, he sat back. “Hang around with me. I have a contact here and there. Not in the Foreign Ministry, I admit, but they might be able to help you.”
He wants something, she thought. What is it? Though his gaze was unflinching, she sensed a new tension in his posture, saw in his eyes the anticipation rippling beneath the surface.
“You’re being awfully helpful. Why?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“That’s hardly an answer.”
“Maybe at heart I’m still the Boy Scout helping old ladies cross the street. Maybe I’m a nice guy.”
“Maybe you could tell me the truth.”
“Have you always had this problem trusting men?”
“Yes, and don’t change the subject.”
For a moment, he didn’t speak. He sat drumming his fingers against the beer bottle. “Okay,” he admitted. “So I fibbed a little. I was never a Boy Scout. But I meant it about helping you out. The offer stands.”
She didn’t say a thing. For Guy, that silence, that look of skepticism, said it all. The woman didn’t trust him. But why not, when he’d sounded his most sincere? He wondered what had made her so mistrustful. Too many hard knocks in life? Too many men who’d lied to her?
Well, watch out, baby, ’cause this one’s no different, he thought with a twinge of self-disgust.
He just as quickly shook off the feeling. The stakes were too high to be developing a conscience. Especially at his age.
Now he’d have to tell another lie. He’d been lying a lot lately. It didn’t get any easier.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart.”
She didn’t look surprised. That annoyed him. “What do you expect in return?” she asked, her eyes hard on his. “Money?” She paused. “Sex?”
That last word, flung out so matter-of-factly, made his belly do a tiny loop-the-loop. Not that he hadn’t already thought about that particular subject. He’d thought about it a lot ever since he’d met her. And now that she was sitting only a few feet away, watching him with those unyielding eyes, he was having trouble keeping certain images out of his head. Briefly he considered the possibility of throwing a little sex into the deal, but he just as quickly discarded the idea. He felt low enough as it was.
He calmly reached for the Heineken. The frostiness had gone out of the bottle. “No,” he said. “Sex isn’t part of the bargain.”
“I see.” She bit her lip. “Then it’s money.”
He gave a nod.
“I think you should know that I don’t have any. Not for you, anyway.”
“It’s not your money I’m after.”
“Then whose?”
He paused, willing his expression to remain bland. His voice dropped to a murmur. “Have you ever heard of the Ariel Group?”
“Never.”
“Neither had I. Until two weeks ago, when I was contacted by two of their representatives. They’re a veterans’ organization, dedicated to bringing our MIAs home—alive. Even if it means launching a Rambo operation.”
“I see,” she said, her
