cliff. The crazy part was, he really wasn’t a handsome man at all. His nose was crooked, as if, after managing to get it broken, he hadn’t bothered to set it back in place. His hair was in need of a barber or at least a comb. She guessed he was somewhere in his late thirties, though the years scarcely showed except around his eyes, where deep laugh lines creased the corners. No, she’d seen far better-looking men. Men who offered more than a sweaty one-night grope in a foreign hotel.
So why is this guy getting to me?
“Just a drink?” he offered again.
“Thanks,” she said. “But no thanks.”
To her relief, he didn’t press the issue. He nodded, sat back and looked out the window. His fingers drummed the briefcase. The mindless rhythm drove her crazy. She tried to ignore him, just as he was trying to ignore her, but it was hopeless. He was too imposing a presence.
By the time they pulled up at the Oriental Hotel, she was ready to leap out of the car. She practically did.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, and slammed the door shut.
“Hey, wait!” called the man through the open window. “I never caught your name!”
“Willy.”
“You have a last name?”
She turned and started up the hotel steps. “Maitland,” she said over her shoulder.
“See you around, Willy Maitland!” the man yelled.
Not likely, she thought. But as she reached the lobby doors, she couldn’t help glancing back and watching the car disappear around the corner. That’s when she realized she didn’t even know the man’s name.
GUY SAT ON HIS BED in the Liberty Hotel and wondered what had compelled him to check into this dump. Nostalgia, maybe. Plus cheap government rates. He’d always stayed here on his trips to Bangkok, ever since the war, and he’d never seen the need for a change until now. Certainly the place held a lot of memories. He’d never forget those hot, lusty nights of 1973. He’d been a twenty-year-old private on R and R; she’d been a thirty-year-old army nurse. Darlene. Yeah, that was her name. The last he’d seen of her, she was a chain-smoking mother of three and about fifty pounds overweight. What a shame. The woman, like the hotel, had definitely gone downhill.
Maybe I have, too, he thought wearily as he stared out the dirty window at the streets of Bangkok. How he used to love this city, loved the days of wandering through the markets, where the colors were so bright they hurt the eyes; loved the nights of prowling the back streets of Pat Pong, where the music and the girls never quit. Nothing bothered him in those days—not the noise or the heat or the smells.
Not even the bullets. He’d felt immune, immortal. It was always the other guy who caught the bullet, the other guy who got shipped home in a box. And if you thought otherwise, if you worried too long and hard about your own mortality, you made a lousy soldier.
Eventually, he’d become a lousy soldier.
He was still astonished that he’d survived. It was something he’d never fully understand: the simple fact that he’d made it back alive.
Especially when he thought of all the other men on that transport plane out of Da Nang. Their ticket home, the magic bird that was supposed to deliver them from all the madness.
He still had the scars from the crash. He still harbored a mortal dread of flying.
He refused to think about that upcoming flight to Saigon. Air travel, unfortunately, was part of his job, and this was just one more plane he couldn’t avoid.
He opened his briefcase, took out a stack of folders and lay down on the bed to read. The file he opened first was one of dozens he’d brought with him from Honolulu. Each contained a name, rank, serial number, photograph and a detailed history—as detailed as possible—of the circumstances of disappearance. This one was a naval airman, Lieutenant Commander Eugene Stoddard, last seen ejecting from his disabled bomber forty miles west of Hanoi. Included was a dental chart and an old X-ray report of an arm fracture sustained as a teenager. What the file left out were the nonessentials: the wife he’d left behind, the children, the questions.
There were always questions when a soldier was missing in action.
Guy skimmed the pages, made a few mental notes and reached for another file. These were the most likely cases, the men whose stories best matched the newest collection of remains. The Vietnamese government was turning over three sets, and Guy’s job was to confirm the skeletons were non-Vietnamese and to give each one a name, rank and serial number. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant job, but one that had to be done.
He set aside the second file and reached for the next.
This one didn’t contain a photograph; it was a supple-mentary file, one he’d reluctantly added to his briefcase at the last minute. The cover was stamped Confidential, then, a year ago, restamped Declassified. He opened the file and frowned at the first page.
Code Name: Friar Tuck
Status: Open (Current as of 10/85)
File Contains: 1. Summary of Witness Reports
2. Possible Identities
3. Search Status
Friar Tuck. A legend known to every soldier who’d fought in Nam. During the war, Guy had assumed those tales of a rogue American pilot flying for the enemy were mere fantasy.
Then, a few weeks ago, he’d learned otherwise.
He’d been at his desk at the Army Lab when two men, representatives of an organization called the Ariel Group, had appeared in his office. “We have a proposition,” they’d said. “We know you’re visiting Nam soon, and we want you to look for a war criminal.” The man they were seeking was Friar Tuck.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Guy had laughed. “I’m not a military cop. And there’s no such man. He’s a fairy tale.”
In answer, they’d handed him a twenty-thousand-dollar check—“for expenses,” they’d said. There’d be more to come if he brought the traitor back to justice.
“And if I don’t want the job?” he’d asked.
“You can hardly refuse” was their answer. Then they’d told Guy exactly what they knew about him, about his past, the thing he’d done in the war. A brutal secret that could destroy him, a secret he’d kept hidden away behind a wall of fear and self-loathing. They told him exactly what he could expect if it came to light. The hard glare of publicity. The trial. The jail cell.
They had him cornered. He took the check and awaited the next contact.
The day before he left Honolulu, this file had arrived special delivery from Washington. Without looking at it, he’d slipped it into his briefcase.
Now he read it for the first time, pausing at the page listing possible identities. Several names he recognized from his stack of MIA files, and it struck him as unfair, this list. These men were missing in action and probably dead; to brand them as possible traitors was an insult to their memories.
One
