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 meant. Much of the thrust for her series called into question the whole issue of the Navy, of the government spending tens of billions of dollars for a fifteen-carrier fleet it no longer needed. While drawing out Tombstone and getting him to talk about himself, Pamela had argued that carriers were too expensive and too vulnerable, useless high-tech toys in an age when nuclear confrontation with the Soviets was no longer a likely possibility, and when Third World banana republics no longer knuckled under to gunboat diplomacy.
Pamela knew she'd done a damned good job putting her message across, too.
Still, she'd liked the way Tombstone had kept the ball coming back into her court. He believed in carriers as an extension of Presidential foreign policy with an almost passionate conviction. He'd not convinced her of his side of the argument, not by a long shot, but she admired the way he stood up to her.
Maybe that was what she found most fascinating about the guy.
They finished the custards and disposed of the banana leaf wrappings in a street-side waste container.
'It's waste I don't like, Tombstone,' she said after a long silence. 'We don't need multibillion-dollar floating airfields anymore. Maybe back in the days when we were toe-to-toe with the Soviets, but…'
'The Russians aren't the only bad boys on the block,' he said. 'Besides, they're preoccupied with their own troubles right now… but there's nothing that says they might not come out of their hole sometime soon meaner and scrappier than ever.'
'Nonsense.' Her tone was harsher, more sarcastic than she'd intended.
'The Cold War is over, or hadn't you heard?'
He looked at her, his gray eyes like ice. 'You know, Pamela, I've had the distinct impression all along that you had it in for us service pukes.'
The accusation hit her in the pit of the stomach like a blow. She stopped in mid-stride, turning on Tombstone, unable to keep the fury out of her face and voice. 'Don't you say that! Don't you ever say that!'
Tombstone's expression showed first confusion, then concern. 'Pamela?
What's wrong?'
Slowly, she forced herself to relax, unclenching her fists, and looking away from the Navy officer to study the crowd surrounding them. As many people as there were, the surroundings felt strangely private.
Pamela took a deep breath. 'Sorry, Commander,' she said. 'It's… what you said.'
'What did I say?'
She was silent a long moment. 'I'll tell you something. Something I…
don't like to talk about.' She looked away, catching her lower lip between her teeth before she continued. 'I had a brother once.'
He gave her a hard look. ''Had'?'
Pamela nodded. The pain was still sharp. 'His name was Bobby and he was three years younger than me. I was a journalism major at Pitt when he graduated from high school. Our… our family was all set to pack him off to college, but he wouldn't have any of it. You talk about conservatives! He figured the colleges were all liberal hotbeds ? this was the dawn of the Reagan Era, you understand ? and that there were better ways of getting an education without spending forty thousand dollars for a piece of paper to hang on a wall.'
'What happened?'
'He joined the Marines.' She sniffled once, surprised that the memory still brought tears. 'He went to boot camp at Paris Island, then got assigned to a rifle platoon going overseas. Beirut.'
'Oh, God.'
'October, 1983. Some crazy drove a truck bomb into his barracks one floor below where he was sleeping. They never even found enough of him afterward to send home in a body bag.'
'I'm… sorry.'
'So, Commander, I do care for… for 'service pukes,' as you call them.
And that's why. As a journalist, yes, damn it, as a liberal journalist, I take great pleasure in putting the spotlight on waste in the military, especially on fat, braid-heavy Washington S.O.B.'s who ship young men like Bobby off into impossible situations, places where they aren't even allowed to defend themselves, places where they can get killed, killed just because…
because…'
Pamela wasn't sure just how she got into Tombstone's arms. It hadn't been her idea, but she made no move to break away.
'I'm sorry, Pamela,' he said. 'I had no idea…'
'How could you?' She took a step back and looked up into his face, searching. 'Tombstone, I… I really was interested in you during the interview. Not as a hero. Not as some kind of target in a campaign against government waste. As a person. I can disagree with a national policy and still see you as a… as a person, can't I?' She'd almost said 'friend,' and wasn't sure why she'd changed the word at the last instant. Pamela had not felt this confused in a long time, and it embarrassed her.
'I wish you would,' Tombstone said. He grinned. 'Why do you think I went to all this trouble to be with you someplace where we didn't have a camera staring at us?'
She looked around and was suddenly aware that several Thais nearby were casting dark looks in their direction. 'Speaking of staring…'
Tombstone followed her glance and smiled. 'That custom,' he said. 'They disapprove of public displays of affection between the sexes. Even holding hands.' He was still holding hers.
'Hey! I've seen guys holding hands in public here.'
'That's different. Friends are a lot more demonstrative with each other in public here than back Stateside. But boys and girls have to watch their step.'
She pulled her hand free. 'Maybe we should watch ours, then.' She looked at her watch. 'I should get back,'
