Tess Gerritsen: Double Impact

From his favorite corner table, Siang watched the action, the men sipping drinks, the waitresses dangling after tips. Then he focused on the stage, on the girl in the middle. She was special. Lush hips, meaty thighs, a pink, carnivorous tongue. He couldn’t define what it was about her eyes, but she had that look. The numeral 7 was pinned on her G-string. He would have to inquire later about number seven.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Siang.”

Siang looked up to see the man standing in the shadows. It never failed to impress him, the size of that man. Even now, twenty years after their first meeting, Siang could not help feeling he was a child in the presence of this giant.

The man ordered a beer and sat down at the table. He watched the stage for a moment. “A new act?” he asked.

“The one in the middle is new.”

“Ah, yes, very nice. Your type, is she?”

“I will have to find out.” Siang took a sip of whiskey, his gaze never leaving the stage. “You said you had a job for me.”

“A small matter.”

“I hope that does not mean a small reward.”

The man laughed softly. “No, no. Have I ever been less than generous?”

“What is the name?”

“A woman.” The man slid a photograph onto the table. “Her name is Willy Maitland. Thirty-two years old. Five foot two, dark blond hair cut short, gray eyes. Staying at the Oriental Hotel.”

“American?”

“Yes.”

Siang paused. “An unusual request.”

“There is some…urgency.”

Ah. The price goes up, thought Siang. “Why?” he asked.

“She departs for Saigon tomorrow morning. That leaves you only tonight.”

Siang nodded and looked back at the stage. He was pleased to see that the girl in the middle, number seven, was looking straight at him. “That should be time enough,” he said.

WILLY MAITLAND WAS standing at the river’s edge, staring down at the swirling water.

From across the dining terrace, Guy spotted her, a tiny figure leaning at the railing, her short hair fluffing in the wind. From the hunch of her shoulders, the determined focus of her gaze, he got the impression she wanted to be left alone. Stopping at the bar, he picked up a beer-Oranjeboom, a good Dutch brand he hadn’t tasted in years. He stood there a moment, watching her, savoring the touch of the frosty bottle against his cheek.

She still hadn’t moved. She just kept gazing down at the river, as though hypnotized by something she saw in the muddy depths. He moved across the terrace toward her, weaving past empty tables and chairs, and eased up beside her at the railing. He marveled at the way her hair seemed to reflect the red and gold sparks of sunset.

“Nice view,” he said.

She glanced at him. One look, utterly uninterested, was all she gave him. Then she turned away.

He set his beer on the railing. “Thought I’d check back with you. See if you’d changed your mind about that drink.”

She stared stubbornly at the water.

“I know how it is in a foreign city. No one to share your frustrations. I thought you might be feeling a little-”

“Give me a break,” she said, and walked away.

He must be losing his touch, he thought. He snatched up his beer and followed her. Pointedly ignoring him, she strolled along the edge of the terrace, every so often flicking her hair off her face. She had a cute swing to her walk, just a little too frisky to be considered graceful.

“I think we should have dinner,” he said, keeping pace. “And maybe a little conversation.”

“About what?”

“Oh, we could start off with the weather. Move on to politics. Religion. My family, your family.”

“I assume this is all leading up to something?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Let me guess. An invitation to your room?”

“Is that what you think I’m trying to do?” he asked in a hurt voice. “Pick you up?”

“Aren’t you?” she said. Then she turned and once again walked away.

This time he didn’t follow her. He didn’t see the point. Leaning back against the rail, he sipped his beer and watched her climb the steps to the dining terrace. There, she sat down at a table and retreated behind a menu. It was too late for tea and too early for supper. Except for a dozen boisterous Italians sitting at a nearby table, the terrace was empty. He lingered there a while, finishing off the beer, wondering what his next approach should be. Wondering if anything would work. She was a tough nut to crack, surprisingly fierce for a dame who barely came up to his shoulder. A mouse with teeth.

He needed another beer. And a new strategy. He’d think of it in a minute.

He headed up the steps, back to the bar. As he crossed the dining terrace, he couldn’t help a backward glance at the woman. Those few seconds of inattention almost caused him to collide with a well-dressed Thai man moving in the opposite direction. Guy murmured an automatic apology. The other man didn’t answer; he walked right on past, his gaze fixed on something ahead.

Guy took about two steps before some inner alarm went off in his head. It was pure instinct, the soldier’s premonition of disaster. It had to do with the eyes of the man who’d just passed by.

He’d seen that look of deadly calm once before, in the eyes of a Vietnamese. They had brushed shoulders as Guy was leaving a popular Da Nang nightclub. For a split second their gazes had locked. Even now, years later, Guy still remembered the chill he’d felt looking into that man’s eyes. Two minutes later, as Guy had stood waiting in the street for his buddies, a bomb ripped apart the building. Seventeen Americans had been killed.

Now, with a growing sense of alarm, he watched the Thai stop and survey his surroundings. The man seemed to spot what he was looking for and headed toward the dining terrace. Only two of the tables were occupied. The Italians sat at one, Willy Maitland at the other. At the edge of the terrace, the Thai paused and reached into his jacket.

Reflexively, Guy took a few steps forward. Even before his eyes registered the danger, his body was already reacting. Something glittered in the man’s hand, an object that caught the bloodred glare of sunset. Only then could Guy rationally acknowledge what his instincts had warned him was about to happen.

He screamed, “Willy! Watch out!”

Then he launched himself at the assassin.

AT THE SOUND of the man’s shout, Willy lowered her menu and turned. To her amazement, she saw it was the crazy American, toppling chairs as he barreled across the cocktail lounge. What was that lunatic up to now?

In disbelief, she watched him shove past a waiter and fling himself at another man, a well-dressed Thai. The two bodies collided. At the same instant, she heard something hiss through the air, felt an unexpected flick of pain in her arm. She leapt up from her chair as the two men slammed to the ground near her feet.

At the next table, the Italians were also out of their chairs, pointing and shouting. The bodies on the ground rolled over and over, toppling tables, sending sugar bowls crashing to the stone terrace. Willy was lost in utter confusion. What was happening? Why was that idiot fighting with a Thai businessman?

Both men staggered to their feet. The Thai kicked high, his heel thudding squarely into the other man’s belly. The American doubled over, groaned and landed with his back propped up against the terrace wall.

The Thai vanished.

By now the Italians were hysterical.

Willy scrambled through the fallen chairs and shattered crockery and crouched at the man’s side. Already a bruise the size of a golf ball had swollen his cheek. Blood trickled alarmingly from his torn lip. “Are you all right?” she cried.