It was not something to dwell on, and he bitterly wished he knew how to steer this interview in another direction.
Pamela seemed to sense his discomfort, and turned away. 'Cut!' she said.
'Okay, people, let's take a break. Save the lights.'
'Looked good,' Griffith said, lowering the camcorder. 'Why'd you quit?'
She stood and stretched with a smooth, sinuous movement of arms and shoulders. 'I'm tired. We need to regroup.' She turned and smiled at Tombstone, her golden hair swirling just above her shoulders. 'You're coming across very well, Matt. Was something bothering you about that last line of questioning?'
He smiled. 'it showed, huh?'
'Only to someone who's interviewed as many guilty congressmen as I have.'
She sat down again and laid one perfectly manicured hand on his knee. 'You're doing splendidly!'
'I was a bit uncomfortable with where things were going,' he confessed.
'I really don't like talking about this hero stuff.'
She laughed. 'Not only handsome, but modest too! How are we going to get you to open up about yourself, Matt?'
He could sense that she was trying to build him up, to put him at ease, and he felt a vague displeasure at the attempt to manipulate his feelings at the same time that he admired the way she was pulling it off.
'Miss Drake, I-'
'Please!' she said. 'It's Pamela!'
'Pamela. Can't I convince you that being a hero doesn't really have anything to do with just doing my job?'
'You might convince me, but I doubt that our viewers would understand.
You're an air ace, a Top Gun. You've gone into single combat with the enemy in a silver steed with magic weapons that Buck Rogers would envy. That's the stuff heroes are made of, Matt.'
'But I thought you wanted this series of yours to be about how expensive aircraft carriers are!'
She laughed again. 'We'll get to that, don't worry!' She turned serious again. 'What I really want to do is show the whole story, the men as well as the machines. You can't have one without the other.'
'I agree. But you know, us aviator types tend to steal the show. Maybe you should show something about the ordinary guys who make Jefferson run.
Most of them are kids, nineteen… twenty. They work sixteen-hour days, and that's routine. When the pressure's on, I've seen them go all out for forty-eight hours straight. Down in engineering they're working in hundred-ten-degree heat. Up on the flight deck there's not a single man among them who hasn't come close one time or another to getting blasted over the side by jet wash, or sucked into an engine intake, or decapitated by a snapped arrestor cable. You know, the deck of an aircraft carrier may be the most dangerous work place in the world, but those kids do it, day after day.
They're the heroes, not hot-dogs like me.'
'Can there really be such a thing as a modest fighter pilot?' Her lips quirked up in a thoughtful smile. 'I thought all fighter jocks were supposed to be so arrogant and cocky!'
He grinned. 'I guess it helps. Nowadays, though, you're better off if you have the temperament of an engineer.'
'Well, I don't think I would have believed it if I hadn't seen one with my own eyes.' She looked at her watch. 'I'd say we've done enough for today.
Boys? Let's wrap it.'
Tombstone studied her profile for a moment. Despite their differences, he felt himself attracted to her. She seemed to feel his eyes on her and turned suddenly, their eyes meeting.
'I tell you what,' he said. 'It's late and I haven't had dinner yet.
Know someplace in Bangkok where we could have some authentic That food?'
She pursed her lips. 'I should warn you, Commander, that I don't get involved with my… subjects.'
'That makes you sound like a lab technician. What am I, a rare specimen?'
'Okay, I'll tell you what. There are several restaurants right here in the Dusit Thani. There's the Mayflower… that's Chinese. Or the Shogun for Japanese food. Or the Hamilton for French cuisine. We'll have dinner, but only if it's on my expense account.'
'Hey, how could any self-respecting hotdog refuse an offer like that?
Let's go!'
They settled on the Mayflower. The food was good, but Tombstone scarcely noticed it.
CHAPTER 8
Located across the Chao Phraya River from the capital, Thonburi was supposed to be Bangkok's sister city, but so far as Pamela could see, the area was simply a continuation of the buildings and shanties, Buddhist wats and tourist traps, dark-watered klongs and waterfront piers making up the low, oriental urban sprawl that was Bangkok.
The district's Kiong Dao Kanong carried a special reputation, however, a place where visitors to Thailand could glimpse a fragment of a largely vanished way of life, the floating markets of Thonburi.
She stole a sideways glance at her companion. During much of the interview the night before, Matthew Magruder had seemed reserved, even shy.
Now he displayed an animated, almost boyish exuberance as he studied a guide booklet and pointed out landmarks and sights along the waterway. Pamela was not a morning person, and she wondered if Tombstone's Navy hours were responsible for his break-of-day brightness.
Still, she had to admit she was enjoying herself… and enjoying his company. This expedition had been rather hastily planned, and she'd not been entirely certain at the time that it was a good idea.
It had been late enough the previous evening when Tombstone had decided to stay in the city overnight. Today was Saturday and the aviator had this weekend off, so there was no need for him to get back to the ship until Monday.
Almost… almost she'd suggested that he spend the night with her, but 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
