‘And he told you everything?’
‘He told me what he said you’d told him. The bare bones, I’d call it.’
‘And how much was that?’
‘You want me to go through it?’
‘Please.’ Murray finished his prawns and drank his wine, listening to Finlayson’s low monotone repeating almost word for word the tale Murray had heard from the young American all those weeks back in the Bangkok clip-joint. When it was over he smiled and called for a second bottle of wine. ‘So what’s your opinion — professionally? Do you believe it?’
Finlayson stroked his moustache and gazed across at the bar where a noisy group of Americans had burst in and were ordering Jim Beam bourbon on the rocks. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘it’s a very plausible theory.’
‘But is it true? Could they really have had that amount at one time in one place?’ Murray was leaning forward now, his eyes trying to hold Finlayson’s across the dim candlelight. ‘Is it possible?’
‘Oh certainly. Of course, I don’t deal with Vietnam as such. Most of my work’s tied up here in Laos with foreign aid. But I do get a peek at some of the gold figures. And they’re pretty staggering. As you know, since the gold crisis in fifty-seven most of the big trading’s shifted from up here down to Saigon. It’s now one of the biggest gold markets in the world — the Chinese Reds are buying it up through the London Gold Pool. And by international law all gold buying must be transacted in dollars — U.S. of course. And if some of the figures I’ve seen are correct, it amounts to a very fair sum.’
‘How much of it is hot money?’
‘A lot of it’s warm, shall we say.’
‘And all in dollars?’
‘Indeed. Who wants to deal in a load of old Vietnamese piastres when there are greenbacks around?’
‘So what happens to these greenbacks?’
‘They try to get them out of the country. A flush-out, they call it. It’s done about every six to eight months. They fly the stuff out to some safe place, usually the Philippines, then ship it back to the old U.S.A.’
He was interrupted by one of the Americans at the bar, who had caught sight of him and now came lurching over: ‘Hi George! How’s the kip keeping?’
‘Quite satisfactory, thanks.’ He made no effort to introduce Murray. ‘And how’s the flying?’
‘Up and down, like always. We lost another last week — C 46, had an engine go and went smack into a mountain. One helluva life, at four hundred bucks a week, and you finish getting burned up on a stinking mountain in Laos! Well, see you around, George.’
‘My pleasure,’ Finlayson murmured. ‘Air U.S.A. pilots,’ he said to Murray when they were gone. ‘It’s a CIA outfit. Quite a joke really — the only charter airline in the world that carries no passengers, but will fly anywhere and drop anything.’ He took a deep drink of wine, while Murray sat studying the crouched backs of the pilots along the bar, thinking hard but saying nothing.
‘What about this American sergeant chap?’ Finlayson asked. ‘How much have you discussed with him?’
‘Nothing — directly. He’s an M.P. for a start, and he doesn’t want to spend three years in the stockade, plus a dishonourable discharge. All he said was he might be able to get me on to the airfield to have a look round — might even arrange for me to wear an M.P.’s uniform. But that’s not your side of the business.’ He leant forward again across the table. ‘Let me ask you something personal, George.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Have you ever done anything illegal in your life?’
Finlayson’s pale eyes bulged back at him. ‘Illegal, old boy? Perish the thought!’
Murray smiled: ‘What about the Lao National Lottery last year? The first and only one of its kind in the world — the only one that never paid any prizes?’ He peered at him closely over his glass, but the large melancholy face across the table was giving nothing away. ‘I suppose Charles Pol told you about that?’
‘Isn’t it common knowledge? You advised the Lao Ministry of Finance — told them it was a good way to raise a little extra revenue — then took a small cut of the profits?’
Finlayson nodded slowly, gazing into his wine. ‘Fair’s fair,’ he said. ‘It was rather underhand, I grant you. But I still don’t think Pol should have let on.’
Murray smiled: ‘You may not have done anything very illegal in the past — but that’s all going to change, if we go through with this. Understand?’
‘Understood.’
The pilots at the bar were beginning to sound drunk, throwing dice and shouting. Murray envied them. Four hundred dollars a week, with the spice of danger thrown in, and no moral obligations.
Finlayson said quietly: ‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘Find out the time, date and place of the next flush-out. Can you do that?’
‘I’ll keep my ear to the ground. One sometimes picks up a clue here and there.’
‘It’s got to be more than a clue, George. If you’re going to be cut in, it’s got to be all or nothing. What about the previous flush-outs?’
‘Oh, one heard about them, but usually only after they’d happened. I remember, because they’re always given the codenames of weapons. The last one was Happy Hound, the ones before, Mighty Mouse and Bullpup. Like children with important toys, don’t you think?’
‘Find out the name and time and place of the next one, George.’ Murray sat very still, waiting for the banker’s reaction, while the Americans at the bar argued over a bet.
Finlayson spent some time wiping his mouth with his napkin, then twirling his wine glass in
