Free Whistleblower and Never Say Die by Tess Gerritsen

to hellski.”

Chapter Four
    G uy watched her storm away, her chambray skirt snapping smartly about those fabulous legs. Annoyed as he was, he couldn’t help laughing when he heard that comeback to the Russian.
    Go to hellski. He laughed harder. He was still laughing as he wandered over to the bar and called for another Heineken. The beer was so cold, it made his teeth ache.
    “For a fellow who’s just gotten the royal heave-ho,” said a voice, obviously British, “you seem to be in high spirits.”
    Guy glanced at the portly gentleman hunched next to him at the bar. With those two tufts of hair on his bald head, he looked like a horned owl. China blue eyes twinkled beneath shaggy eyebrows.
    Guy shrugged. “Win some, lose some.”
    “Sensible attitude. Considering the state of womanhood these days.” The man hoisted a glass of Scotch to his lips. “But then, I could have predicted she’d be a no go.”
    “Sounds like an expert talking.”
    “No, I sat behind her on the plane. Listened to some oily Frenchman ooze his entire repertoire all over her. Smashinglines, I have to say, but she didn’t fall for it.” He squinted at Guy. “Weren’t you on that flight out of Bangkok?”
    Guy nodded. He didn’t remember the man, but then, he’d spent the entire flight white-knuckling his armrest and gulping down whiskey. Airplanes did that to him. Even nice big 747s with nice French stewardesses. It never failed to astonish him that the wings didn’t fall off.
    At the other end of the garden, the trio of Russians had started to sing. Not, unfortunately, in the same key. Maybe not even the same song. It was hard to tell.
    “Never would’ve guessed it,” the Englishman said, glancing over at the Russians. “I still remember the Yanks drinking at that very table. Never would’ve guessed there’d be Russians sitting there one day.”
    “When were you here?”
    “Sixty-eight to ’75.” He held out a pudgy hand in greeting. “Dodge Hamilton, London Post. ”
    “Guy Barnard. Ex-draftee.” He shook the man’s hand. “Reporter, huh? You here on a story?”
    “I was.” Hamilton looked mournfully at his Scotch. “But it’s fallen through.”
    “What has? Your interviews?”
    “No, the concept. I called it a sentimental journey. Visit to old friends in Saigon. Or, rather, to one friend in particular.” He took a swallow of Scotch. “But she’s gone.”
    “Oh. A woman.”
    “That’s right, a woman. Half the human race, but they might as well be from Mars for all I understand the sex.” He slapped down the glass and motioned for another refill. The bartender resignedly shoved the whole bottle of Scotch over to Hamilton. “See, the story I had in mind was thesearch for a lost love. You know, the sort of copy that sells papers. My editor went wild about it.” He poured the Scotch, recklessly filling the glass to the brim. “Ha! Lost love! I stopped by her old house today, over on Rue Catinat. Or what used to be Rue Catinat. Found her brother still living there. But it seems my old love ran away with some new love. A sergeant. From Memphis, no less.”
    Guy shook his head in sympathy. “A woman has a right to change her mind.”
    “One day after I left the country?”
    There wasn’t much a man could say to that. But Guy couldn’t blame the woman. He knew how it was in Saigon—the fear, the uncertainty. No one knowing if there’d be a slaughter and everyone expecting the worst. He’d seen the news photos of the city’s fall, recognized the look of desperation on the faces of the Vietnamese scrambling aboard the last choppers out. No, he couldn’t blame a woman for wanting to get out of the country, any way she could.
    “You could still write about it,” Guy pointed out. “Try a different angle. How one woman escaped the madness. The price of survival.”
    “My heart’s not in it any longer.” Hamilton gazed sadly around the rooftop. “Or in this town. I used to love it here! The noise, the