a final professional reserve within herself, the knowledge that mixing
business and pleasure like that would only lead to trouble, had decided
her against it.
He had arranged for a room for himself and not even suggested that they
share her bed. Pamela felt a mild disappointment at that which bordered
on regret.
It wasn’t that she wanted the guy to make a pass at her … but she
wasn’t used to such gentlemanly discretion–or patience–and it left her
wondering if the man even found her attractive.
She pushed the thought aside. What Tombstone had suggested instead had
turned into a delightful excursion that left her feeling far closer to
the man than a recreational romp in bed would have. They’d left
requests for wake-up calls at the ungodly hour of five thirty
A.m.–zero-dark-thirty, as Tombstone had called it–met in the hotel
coffee shop for a thoroughly American breakfast of coffee and Danish,
then made it to the Oriental Docks in time to catch a tour boat by six
forty-five.
The boat had brought them to Thonburi, navigating through a klong
crowded from shore to shore with native craft of all descriptions,
heavily laden with tropical produce. Here, two pretty That girls in
enormous lamp-shade hats, obviously sisters, jostled their skiff close
to the shore to display a bountiful pile of dry fish; there an ancient
man with white whiskers spread woven mats on the dockside piled high
with fried bananas and noodles. Perhaps most surprising were the
tourists. Farangs–the That word for foreigners–outnumbered the locals
by a considerable margin, and most of the shops along the klong appeared
to be selling souvenirs, cameras, and native crafts aimed at Western
tourists. The air was thick with the sharp tang of That spices and
foodstuffs. The crowd noise was loud enough that she had to lean close
to Tombstone’s shoulder and raise her voice to be heard.
“What are you so serious about?” she called. He’d grown quiet in the
last few minutes, and she wondered what had triggered the change.
He flashed her a shy smile. “Just wondering if my dad ever came here.
He would’ve liked this place. He liked people.”
Tombstone had told her about his father earlier that morning, about Sam
Magruder’s death while attacking a bridge in Hanoi. “Lots of servicemen
came here for R&R back then, didn’t they?” she asked.
“That’s probably when Bangkok got its reputation as sin city.” He
stopped next to the spot where a black-eyed girl who couldn’t have been
more than twelve was selling custard-like sweets wrapped in banana
leaves. “Here!
Let’s try some of these.”
Tombstone indicated he wanted two, and fished in his pocket for several
baht to pay for them. “Kawpkun!” Tombstone said as she handed the
bundles up from her boat.
The girl burst out laughing, though whether at Tombstone’s pronunciation
or in pleasure at the tall stranger’s attempt at her language, Pamela
couldn’t tell. “You are welcome!” the That girl replied in perfect,
somewhat stilted English.
“I didn’t know you spoke That, Tombstone,” Pamela said, trying one of
the custards. It was at once sweet and tart, reminiscent of
butterscotch. When had she started using his call sign? she wondered.
Last night sometime. It seemed so … natural.
“Oh, was that That?” He feigned innocence, then sobered. “Actually, a
wise man once said that you need to learn two words in any language in
order to get along in another culture.
“Oh? And what are those?”
“Please and thank you.”
“And who was the wise man?”
“My father.” He shrugged. “It really helps a lot if you at least try a
bit of their language. It is their country, after all.”
“Matthew Magruder, the more I know you, the less likely you seem as a
Navy aviator. You’re supposed to be arrogant!”
“Sorry. You want to see my Tom Cruise Top Gun imitation?”
“No, the Navy has enough Tom Cruises. I kind of like you the way you
are.”
He shook his head. “What is it about the Navy? During the interview
you were going after the Navy’s carrier program like nobody’s business.”
She thought back to the questions she’d asked on camera, and saw what he