“Why?”
There was a long silence. At last, Maitland rose and went to the doorway. There he stared out at the circle of huts. “I think it’s time we talked to the elders.”
“What can they tell me?”
Maitland turned and looked at him. “Everything.”
Lan’s baby was crying in a corner of the hut. She put it to her breast and rocked back and forth, cooing, yet all the time listening intently to the voices whispering in the shadows.
They were all listening—the children, the families. Willy couldn’t understand what was being said, but she could tell the discussion held a frightening significance.
In the center of the hut sat three village elders—two men and a woman—their ancient faces veiled in a swirl of smoke from the joss sticks. The woman puffed on a cigarette as she muttered in Vietnamese. She gestured toward the sky, then to Maitland.
Guy whispered to Willy. “She’s saying it wasn’t your father’s time to die. But the other two men, the American and the Lao, they died because that was the death they were fated all their lives to meet….” He fell silent, mesmerized by the old woman’s voice. The sound seemed to drift like incense smoke, curling in the shadows.
One of the old men spoke, his voice so soft, it was almost lost in the shifting and whispers of the audience.
“He disagrees,” said Guy. “He says it wasn’t fate that killed the Lao.”
The old woman vehemently shook her head. Now there was a general debate about why the Lao had really died. The dissenting old man at last rose and shuffled to a far corner of the hut. There he pulled aside the matting that covered the earthen floor, brushed aside a layer of dirt and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle. With shaking hands he pulled apart the ragged edges. Reverently, he held out the object within.
Even in the gloom of the hut, the sheen of gold was unmistakable.
“It’s the medallion,” whispered Willy. “The one Lassiter told us about.”
“The Lao was wearing it,” said her father.
The old man handed the bundle to Guy. Gingerly, Guy lifted the medallion from its bed of worn cloth. Though the surface was marred by slag from the explosion, the design was still discernable: a three-headed dragon, fangs bared, claws poised for battle.
The old man whispered words of awe and wonder.
“He saw a medallion just like it once before,” said Maitland. “Years ago, in Laos. It was hanging around the neck of Prince Souvanna.”
Guy took in a sharp breath. “It’s the royal crest. That passenger—”
“Was the king’s half brother,” said Maitland. “Prince Lo Van.”
An uneasy murmur rippled through the gathering.
“I don’t understand,” said Willy. “Why would the Company want him dead?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Guy. “Lo Van was a neutral, shifting to our side. And he was straight-arrow, a clean leader. With our backing, he could’ve carved us a foothold in Laos. That might have tipped the scales in our favor.”
“That’s what he was meant to do,” said Maitland. “That crate of gold was his. To be dropped in Laos.”
“To buy an army?” asked Willy.
“Exactly.”
“Then why assassinate him? He was on our side, so—”
“But the guys who blew up the plane weren’t,” said Guy.
“You mean the Communists planted that bomb?”
“No, someone more dangerous. One of ours.”
The elders had fallen silent. They were watching their guests, studying them the way a teacher watches a pupil struggle for answers.
Once again the old woman began to speak. Maitland translated.
“’During the war, some of us lived with the Pathet Lao, the Communists in Laos. There were few places to hide, so we slept in caves. But we had gardens and chickens and pigs, everything we needed to survive. Once, when I was new to the cave, I heard a plane. I thought it was the enemy, the Americans, and I took my rifle and went out to shoot it down. But my cell commander stopped me. I could not understand why he let the plane land. It had enemy markings, the American flag. Our cell commander ordered us to unload the plane. We carried off crates of guns and ammunition. Then we loaded the plane with opium, bags and bags of it. An exchange of goods, I thought. This must be a stolen plane. But then the pilot stepped out, and I saw his face. He was neither Lao nor Vietnamese. He was like you. An American.’”
“Friar Tuck,” said Guy softly.
The woman looked at them, her eyes dark and unreadable.
“I’ve seen him, too,” said Maitland. “I was being held in a camp just west of here when he landed to make an exchange. I tell you, the whole damn country was an opium factory, money being made left and right on both sides. All under cover of war. I think that’s why Lo Van was killed. To keep the place in turmoil. There’s nothing like a dirty war to hide your profits.”
“Who else has seen the pilot’s face?” Guy asked in Vietnamese, looking around the room. “Who else remembers what he looked like?”
A man and a woman, huddled in a corner, slowly raised their hands. Perhaps there were others, too timid to reveal themselves.
“There were four other POWs in that camp with me,” said Maitland. “They saw the pilot’s face. As far as I know, not a single one made it home alive.”
The joss sticks had burned down to ashes, but the smoke still hung in the gloom. No one made a sound, not even the children.
That’s why you’re afraid, thought Willy, gazing at the circle of faces. Even now, after all these years, the war casts its shadow over your lives.
And mine.
“Come back with us, Maitland,” said Guy. “Tell your story. It’s the only way to put it behind you. To be free.”
Maitland stood in the doorway of his hut, staring out at the children playing in the courtyard.
“Guy’s right,” said Willy. “You can’t spend your life in hiding. It’s time to end it.”
Her father turned and looked at her. “What about Lan? The children? If I leave, how do I know the Vietnamese will ever let me back into the country?”
“It’s a risk you have to take,” said Guy.
“Be a hero—is that what you’re telling me?” Maitland shook his head. “Let me tell you something, Barnard. The real heroes of this world aren’t the guys who go out and take stupid risks. No, they’re the ones who hang in where they’re needed, where they belong. Maybe life gets a little dull. Maybe the wife and kids drive ’em crazy. But they hang in.” He looked meaningfully at Willy, then back at Guy. “Believe me. I’ve made enough mistakes to know.”
Maitland looked back at his daughter. “Tonight, you both go back to Hanoi. You’ve got to go home, get on with your own life, Willy.”
“If she gets home,” said Guy.
Maitland was silent.
“What do you think her chances are?” Guy pressed him mercilessly. “Think about it. You suppose they’ll leave her alone knowing what she knows? You think they’ll let her live?”
“So call me a coward!” Maitland blurted out. “Call me any damn name you please. It won’t change things. I can’t leave this time.” He fled the hut.
Through the doorway, they saw him cross the courtyard to where Lan now sat beneath the trees. Lan smiled and handed their baby to her husband. For a long time he sat there, rocking his daughter, holding her tightly to his chest, as though he feared someone might wrench her from his grasp.
You have the world right there in your arms, Willy thought, watching him. You’d be crazy to let it go.
“We have to change his mind,” said Guy. “We have to get him to come back with us.”
At that instant Lan looked up, and her gaze met Willy’s. “He’s not coming back, Guy,” Willy said. “He belongs here.”
“You’re his family, too,” Guy protested.
“But not the one who needs him now.” She leaned her head in the doorway. A leaf fluttered down from the trees and tumbled across the courtyard. A bar
e-bottomed baby toddled after it. “For twenty years I’ve hated that man….” She sighed. And then she smiled. “I guess it’s time I finally grew up.”
“Something’s wrong. Andersen should’ve been back by now.”
Maitland stood at the edge of the jungle and peered up the dirt road. From where the doctor’s jeep had been parked, tire tracks led northward. The branches he’d used for camouflage lay scattered at the roadside. But there was no sign of a vehicle.
Willy and Guy wandered onto the road, where they stood puzzling over Andersen’s delay.
“He knows you’re waiting for him,” said Maitland. “He’s already an hour late.”
Guy kicked a pebble and watched it skitter into the bushes. “Looks like we’re not going back to Hanoi tonight. Not without a ride.” He glanced up at the darkening sky. “It’s almost sunset. I think it’s time to head back to the village.”
Maitland didn’t move. He was still staring up the road.
“He might have a flat tire,” said Willy. “Or he ran out of gas. Either way, Dad, it looks like you’re stuck with us tonight.” She reached out and threaded her arm in his. “Guy’s right. It’s time to go back.”
“Not yet.”
Willy smiled. “Are you that anxious to get rid of us?”
“What?” He glanced at his daughter. “No, no, of course not. It’s just…” He gazed up the road again. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
Willy watched him, suddenly sharing his uneasiness. “You think there’s trouble.”
“And we’re not ready for it,” he said grimly.
“What do you mean?” said Guy, turning to look at him. “The village must have some sort of defenses.”
“We have maybe one working pistol, a few old war relics that haven’t been used in decades. Plus Andersen’s rifle. He left it today.”
“How many rounds?”
“Not enough to—” Maitland’s chin suddenly snapped up. He spun around at the sound of an approaching car.
“Hit the deck!” Guy commanded.
Willy was already leaping for the cover of the nearest bush. At the same instant, Guy and Maitland sprang in the other direction, into the foliage across the road from her.
She barely made it to cover in time. Just as she landed in the dirt, a jeep rounded the bend. Through the tangle of underbrush, she saw that it was filled with soldiers. As it roared closer, she tunneled frantically under the branches, mindless of the thorns clawing her face, and curled up among the leaves to wait for the jeep to pass. Something scurried across her hand. Instinctively she flinched and saw a fat black beetle drop off and scuttle into the shadows. Only then, as her gaze followed the insect, did she notice the strange chattering in the branches and she saw that the earth itself seemed to shudder with movement.
Dear God, she was lying in a whole nest of them!
Choking back a scream, she jerked sideways.
And found herself staring at a human hand. It lay not six inches from her nose, the fingers chalk white and frozen into a beckoning claw.
Even if she’d wanted to scream, she couldn’t have uttered a sound; her throat had clamped down beyond all hope of any cry. Slowly her gaze traveled along the arm, followed it to the torso, and then, inexorably, to the face.
Gunnel Andersen’s lifeless eyes stared back at her.
Chapter Thirteen
The soldiers’ jeep roared past.
Willy muffled her cry with her fist, desperately fighting the shriek of horror that threatened to explode inside her. She fought it so hard her teeth drew blood from her knuckles. The instant the jeep had passed, her control shattered. She stumbled to her feet and staggered backward.
“He’s dead!” she cried.
Guy and her father appeared at her side. She felt Guy’s arm slip around her waist, anchoring her against him. “What are you talking about?”
“Andersen!” She pointed wildly at the bushes.
Her father dropped to the ground and shoved aside the branches. “Dear God,” he whispered, staring at the body.
The trees seemed to wobble around her. Willy slid to her knees. The whole jungle spun in a miserable kaleidoscope of green as she retched into the dirt.
She heard her father say, in a strangely flat voice, “His throat’s been cut.”
“Clean job. Very professional,” Guy muttered. “Looks like he’s been here for hours.”
Willy managed to raise her head. “Why? Why did they kill him?”
Her father let the bushes slip back over the body. “To keep him from talking. To cut us off from—” He suddenly sprang to his feet. “The village! I’ve got to get back!”
“Dad! Wait—”
But her father had already dashed into the jungle.
Guy tugged her up by the arm. “We’ve gotta move. Come on.”
She followed him, running and stumbling behind him on the footpath. The sun was already setting; through the branches, the sky glowed a frightening bloodred.
Just ahead, she heard her father shouting, “Lan! Lan!” As they emerged from the jungle, they saw a dozen villagers gathered, watching as Maitland pulled his wife into his arms and held her.
“These people have got to get out of here!” Guy yelled. “Maitland! Tell them, for God’s sake! They’ve got to leave!”
Maitland released his wife and turned to Guy. “Where the hell are we supposed to go? The next village is twenty miles from here! We’ve got old people, babies.” He pointed to a woman with a swollen belly. “Look at her! You think she can walk twenty miles?”
“She has to. We all have to.”
Maitland turned away, but Guy pulled him around, forcing him to listen. “Think about it! They’ve killed Andersen. You’re next. So’s everyone here, everyone who knows you’re alive. There’s got to be somewhere we can hide!”
Maitland turned to one of the village elders and rattled out a question in Vietnamese.
The old man frowned. Then he pointed northeast, toward the mountains.
“What did he say?” asked Willy.
“He says there’s a place about five kilometers from here. An old cave in the hills. They’ve used it before, other times, other wars….” He glanced up at the sky. “Almost sunset. We have to leave now while there’s still enough light to cross the river.”
Already, the villagers had scattered to gather their belongings. Centuries of war had taught them survival meant haste.
Five minutes was all the time Maitland’s family took to pack. Lan presided over the dismantling of her household, the gathering of essentials—blankets, food, the precious family cooking pot. She spared no time for words or tears. Only outside, when she allowed herself a last backward glance at the hut, did her eyes brim. She swiftly, matter-of-factly, wiped away the tears.
The last light of day glimmered through the branches as the ragged gathering headed into the jungle. Twenty-four adults, eleven children and three infants, Willy counted. And all of us scared out of our wits.
They moved noiselessly, even the children; it was unearthly how silent they were, like ghosts flitting among the trees. At the edge of a fast-flowing river, they halted. A waterwheel spun in the current, an elegant sculpture of bamboo tubes shuttling water into irrigation sluices. The river was too deep for the little ones to ford, so the children were carried to the other bank. Soaked and muddy, they all slogged up the opposite bank and moved on toward the mountains.
Night fell. By the light of a full moon, they journeyed through a spectral land of wind and shadow where the very darkness seemed to tremble with companion spirits. By now the children were exhausted and stumbling. Still, no one had to coax them forward; the fear of pursuit was enough to keep them moving.
At last, at the base of the cliff, they halted. A giant wall of rock glowed silvery in the moonlight. The village elders conferred softly, debating which way to proceed next. It was the old woman who finally led the way. Moving unerringly through the darkness, she guided them to a set of stone steps
carved into the mountain and led them up, along the cliff face to what appeared to be nothing more than a thicket of bushes.
There was a general murmur of dismay. Then one of the village men shoved aside the branches and held up a lit candle. Emptiness lay beyond. He thrust his arm into the void, into a darkness so vast, it seemed to swallow up the feeble light of the flame. They were at the mouth of a giant cavern.
The man crawled inside, only to scramble out as a flurry of wings whooshed past him. Nervous laughter rippled through the gathering.
Bats, Willy thought with a shudder.
The man took a deep breath and entered the cave. A moment later, he called for the others to follow.
Guy gave Willy a nudge. “Go on. Inside.”
She swallowed, balking. “Do I have a choice?”
His answer was immediate. “None whatsoever.”
The village was deserted.
Siang searched the huts one by one. He overturned pallets and flung aside mats, searching for the underground tunnels that were common to every village. In times of peace, those tunnels were used for storage; in times of war, they served as hiding places or escape routes. They were all empty.
In frustration, he grabbed an earthenware pot and smashed it on the ground. Then he stalked out to the courtyard where the men stood waiting in the moonlight, their faces blackened with camouflage paint.
There were fifteen of them, all crack professionals, rough-hewn Americans who towered above him. They had been flown in straight from Thailand at only an hour’s notice. As expected, Laotian air defense had been a large-meshed sieve, unable to detect, much less shoot down, a lone plane flying in low through their airspace. It had taken a mere four hours to march here from their drop point just inside the Vietnamese border. The entire operation had been flawless.
Until now.
“It seems we’ve arrived too late,” a voice said.
Siang turned to see his client emerge from the shadows, one more among this gathering of giants.
“They have had only a few hours’ head start,” said Siang. “Their evening meals were left uneaten.”
“Then they haven’t gone far. Not with women and children.” The man turned to one of the soldiers. “What about the prisoner? Has he talked?”