‘True. But for nearly a hundred million pounds Sterling each — who’s going to start squabblin’ over that?’
‘The rich are greedy and mean, Sammy. We both know that. Certainly I’ve got some ideas, but I’m not giving them all to you now — not over a breakfast of Pernod on our second morning.’ He stood up. ‘First I’m going to have a shave.’
‘You came all prepared for a stopover?’
Murray shrugged: ‘Mrs Conquest and I went out and did the necessary shopping this morning while you were still in your pit. She’s a practical married woman.’
Ryderbeit leered: ‘This morning! A bit late, weren’t you?’
‘You’re a dirty-minded aviator, Sammy. Just toothbrushes and a razor. And I don’t want a single bloody word out of you, drunk or sober, when she comes down.’
‘Not a bleep, soldier. Now you just run upstairs and get on with the good work!’
CHAPTER 3
The plane back to Vientiane was a DC 3 of the national airline and departed, amazingly, on time. It was only half full, mostly of sleeping Royal Lao officers and three gun-metal cases with stencilled lettering: HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE.
Jackie Conquest, who had emerged from her room only minutes before the bus arrived for the airport, slept throughout the flight. Since coming down she had treated Murray with a studied indifference which he found perplexing and faintly ominous. In his experience adultery usually made women conspiratorial or flauntingly reckless. Mrs Conquest was being neither.
Ryderbeit and No-Entry Jones sat together near the tail of the aircraft, talking quietly; Murray still found their relationship obscure. Ryderbeit was comparatively simple: a free-booting, blood-thirsty boaster who could no doubt be dangerous — though probably not as dangerous as Jackie Conquest made out. But the quiet grey Negro was an enigma; Murray decided he must find out a great deal more about him before he committed him to Pol and the full plan.
They landed near the little air terminal with the balcony and the clocktower. This time there was no plimsolled policeman to meet them. The reception committee consisted of three Americans. Two of them were in dungarees, waiting with a trailer-truck; one jumped aboard and began handing down the three gun-metal cases, which appeared mysteriously light. The third man, in a grey suit with knife-edged creases and a narrow tartan tie, was Maxwell Conquest.
Murray felt no alarm. He realised that it would have been very odd if a husband had not come to meet his wife after she’d survived a crash-landing. But he would also have expected the man to look pleased or relieved. Maxwell Conquest looked indifferent.
He stood quite still on the tarmac waiting for them to come down the steps. His wife went first and he said something quickly to her, but she just shrugged, and Conquest turned back and looked at Ryderbeit.
‘Mr Ryderbeit. I hear you lost your plane up at Phongsaly.’
‘That’s right, Mr Conquest. And I bloody nearly lost your wife and all the passengers with it. This airline of yours ought to abide a bit more by IATA rules.’
‘It happened yesterday morning. Why wasn’t I informed until today?’
‘How should I know? I don’t run the CIA.’
‘My wife was on board your aircraft, Mr Ryderbeit. That made you personally responsible for her safety. I got a report this morning that you were heli-lifted out of Phongsaly to Luang Prabang yesterday afternoon. Why didn’t you come on back to Vientiane?’
‘Because there was no plane, and you know it.’
‘If I’d been informed, I could have arranged the necessary transport. Why wasn’t I informed?’
Throughout this exchange no one moved. Jackie Conquest stood beside her husband, looking bored. Conquest’s eyes were like chips of dirty ice. ‘I repeat, why was I not informed last night, Mr Ryderbeit?’
Ryderbeit laughed: ‘Look, I’m not one of your bloody spooks and I don’t carry a walkie-talkie tucked in my crutch. How could I inform you unless —?’
Conquest cut him short: ‘I will not tolerate that kind of language in front of my wife, or any other woman for that matter, Mr Ryderbeit!’ He took a step forward until they were within sparring range. ‘I repeat again, why was I not informed last night that you were in Luang Prabang?’
Ryderbeit flung out his hands and said wearily: ‘So why the hell didn’t your USAID man up in Phongsaly inform you? You boys run this bloody country, not me. I’m just the hired help.’
‘Not for much longer you won’t be, Mr Ryderbeit.’ Conquest’s face had turned the colour of impure wax. ‘You know damn well there’s a USAID office in Luang Prabang. They could have radioed us here and we could have had you all back before dark.’ He turned suddenly to his wife, his face tight with rage: and in that one glance Murray understood. Ryderbeit might have known about the USAID office, but had been in no hurry to get back, preferring a boozy evening with the French pilots. On the other hand, Jacqueline would almost certainly have known too — which could only mean that she had been in no hurry either to get back to Vientiane by nightfall.
Murray now acted, not out of any sense of honour because the Rhodesian was in the firing-line, but simply to intervene before Ryderbeit lost his temper. Whatever Maxwell Conquest might suspect about the lost night in Luang Prabang, he clearly had Ryderbeit in his sights, not Murray.
‘Mr Conquest,’ he said, stepping between them, ‘I don’t think you quite appreciate what happened yesterday. I mean, you should try bringing down your plane on one engine through a high mountain pass in a heavy storm and make a successful forced landing in a paddy field. By some miracle no-one was hurt. But we were all just a little shaken up — you’ll understand that, won’t you? You’ll understand that when we got
