The second man lay on the bed, also drinking. He was young, very good-looking with a square blond crewcut and sly, arrow-shaped eyes. His mouth was long and thin. He wore jeans and a silver-blue windjammer.
The big man lifted his glass. ‘Come in, have a drink!’ he said again, in guttural French, the gun lying across his knee pointing at the floor.
Neil said, ‘Help yourselves.’ He leant against the wall, feeling very tired. The young man looked lazily at him and said in English, with the sort of American drawl that Americans never have, ‘You’re a bad guy, Englishman.’ He shook his head theatrically.
‘How did you get in?’ said Neil.
The young one looked at his elder, and they grinned at each other like dogs. ‘We got in,’ said the big blond man, ‘we have friends in the hotel.’
‘All right,’ said Neil, ‘what do you want?’
The big man began to swing the pistol between his knees. The young one said, ‘Er is ein dummer lump, glaub’ich!’ He looked back at Neil, still grinning: ‘You been up in the Casbah?’ He took a drink of brandy: ‘What yer been doing up there?’
‘I’m a journalist,’ Neil began.
‘We know you’re a journalist,’ said the young one, ‘what you think we been doing in yer goddam room for half an hour?’
‘It’s my job to go into the Casbah.’
‘Not with the guy you go in with, it isn’t,’ said the young one, turning his glass round in his hand, ‘you go in with a barbouze. You know what happens to barbouzes!’ The big blond man finished his drink and stood up: ‘Geh’wir los!’ He waved a hand at Neil: ‘Good cognac, this! Must have cost you a bit!’ He came across the room, his thick arms bent like an ape’s: ‘Come on, Englishman, we go downstairs.’
‘I’ve got to meet somebody,’ said Neil, ‘at half past one.’
They both laughed. The young one swung himself off the bed and mimicked in French: ‘I have to meet somebody!’
‘I’m meeting somebody from the Secret Army,’ said Neil.
‘You are not meeting anybody,’ said the big blond man, taking him by the arm and turning him round. Neil felt the pistol prod against his kidney.
The young one opened the door and they walked down the corridor, taking the stairs instead of the lift. The big man put the pistol away when they reached the foyer. Neil looked round him hopelessly, trying to find a face he knew — Hudson, St. Leger, Tom Mallory drunk or sober. The only person in sight was a tall stringy man with yellow hair, standing at the reception desk with a Gladstone bag and typewriter in a waterproof case. Just as they were crossing to the entrance the man picked up his luggage and turned. For an instant his eyes met Neil’s. It was a pleasant, dried-brown face the colour of an old leaf with very pale blue eyes. There must have been something about the way Neil looked at him, for the man gave a faint, confused smile.
‘Are you a journalist?’ Neil asked loudly, desperately, as he passed the stranger. It was his only hope. He felt the big blond man’s hand press into the small of his back, hurrying him towards the plate-glass doors.
The newcomer stopped: ‘Yes, I am indeed.’ He spoke English with a slight accent. ‘I am Nielsen,’ he went on, holding out a hand, ‘Carl Nielsen, Svens Dagblatt. I only just arrived now.’
Before Neil could take the man’s hand, the young one behind him said, ‘Sorry, sir, we got business! See yer later!’ He pushed Neil towards the entrance, past the receptionists who kept their eyes carefully averted. The Swede looked puzzled, waving a hand: ‘I will see you then. Goodbye!’
‘Goodbye!’ chanted the young one as they went through the plate-glass doors, then laughed, squeezing Neil’s arm: ‘Not much help, was he?’
Neil said nothing. They took him across the gravel to a black Citroën DS. A huge man who looked like a Corsican, with a square face and heavy moustache, sat behind the wheel; his brown suit bulged under the elbow. The blond man pushed Neil into the back and climbed in beside him. The young one sat up in front, and they drove away.
‘May I ask where we’re going?’ said Neil.
‘You find out,’ said the young one.
They passed two jeeps, an armoured car, guns and men in steel helmets. Neil stared out at them, and none of them looked back.
The young one turned suddenly: ‘You got a British passport?’
Neil nodded, trying to swallow; the inside of his mouth felt like scuffed leather.
The young one took out a cigarette. ‘You from London?’ he went on, sounding almost friendly.
‘That’s right,’ said Neil, his voice far outside him. The big man had the pistol lying against his knee again.
‘I know plenty journalists,’ the young one said, lighting his cigarette, ‘here — in Saigon — all full o’ shit!’ He sat there looking like a well-scrubbed American college boy. ‘You bastards know nothing,’ he added.
‘You must have been very young to have been in Saigon?’ said Neil, hoping to keep the conversation as polite as possible.
The young one nodded. ‘I was legionnaire first at seventeen years old in Saigon. I lied to ’em — told ’em I was twenty.’
‘Where do you come from?’
‘From Dresden. Now under the Bolsheviks.’ He smiled broadly: ‘For fifteen days I was a Werewolf in the Hitlerjugend. Ach, das war toll! Crazy days!’ He nodded towards the big blond man: ‘We two, we are in the Premier R.E.P. — Foreign Legion paratroopers. Best regiment in the world!’
The big
