Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty: Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty. Tess Gerritsen

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ