‘What brought him out here?’
‘Prejudice. Boredom. And money. A couple o’ hundred a week with tax doesn’t go too far in Florida — even when the most expensive places are barred to you. Anyway, No-Entry’s a pro — he didn’t want to waste his talents sittin’ around in a sound-proof studio playin’ late-night M.C. to a lot o’ teenagers jerkin’ themselves off in the back o’ their daddies’ cars. I mean, Jones has a certain professional pride. You follow me?’
‘Partly. What I don’t follow is how Jones puts up with you. Does he have any racial pride as well?’
‘He has a certain sense of humour, soldier. He thinks I’m amusing. He once told me that a white African Jew and a Welsh-American Negro adds up to quits. We’ve never discussed the matter since.’
‘Does he have a criminal record?’
Ryderbeit’s head snapped round, his eyes bright even in the dimness of the bar. ‘What d’yer mean?’
‘Just what I said. Does Jones have a criminal record? Something extra that encouraged him to get out of the States, and can be traced back?’
Ryderbeit sat hunched across the bar, picking his teeth. ‘He once killed a man. In Karlsruhe in forty-five. He was with a flaxen-haired Gretchen in an off-limits beerhall, and a gang o’ Krauts jumped him. Four of ’em had the sense to run, but the fifth tried to represent the master-race single-handed. No-Entry hit him somewhere rather sensitive just behind the ear and dropped him dead.’
‘What happened?’
‘Not much. In those days you could do pretty well what you liked to Krauts and get away with it. He was court-martialled on a manslaughter charge and got off with a severe reprimand. But they also shipped him back to the States where the odds weren’t quite so loaded in his favour.’
‘That the lot?’
‘Otherwise clean.’
‘As far as you know?’
‘I’d know. Jones and I don’t have secrets.’
‘And what about you, Sammy? How’s your record — apart from the aircraft-carrier?’
‘Lousy. Bigamy in South America, but they’d have a problem tryin’ to prove it. And the Congo doesn’t count.’
‘What about here — Thailand and Vietnam?’
‘Clean as a nun’s knickers.’
‘Anything on the FBI or CIA files — apart from Conquest?’
He shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t have hired me if there had been. But why all the interest?’
‘I should have thought that would be obvious enough. If we bring off this heist, and manage to hide that plane, there’s going to be the biggest world-wide manhunt since the Creation. And the first people they’re going to check on are the boys with records. A first-class pilot who’s just had the sack from Air U.S.A. would be a pretty high priority.’
Ryderbeit laughed: ‘But by then it would be too late, soldier. All I need to do is get on that Tân Sơn Nhất airfield, Saigon. After that I just vanish. I’ve done it before, I can do it again. Samuel David Ryderbeit, the Vanishing Jew.’
Murray nodded: ‘And how long is this job going to last now?’
Ryderbeit looked at his watch, then threw some money across at the girl. ‘We’re on a six-month contract. I’m still part of the outfit, even if they stop me flying. So as long as the next flush-out comes within the next six months, I can still walk on to that airfield any time I like.’ He slapped Murray on the back. ‘Cheer up, soldier! I may be your weak link, but you’re not goin’ to find anybody better. See you at the “White Rose” at eight.’
‘You think you’re invited?’
‘It’s not a London club, y’know — you don’t have to be a member to get in. See you, Murray boy!’ — and he strolled out into the sunlight.
CHAPTER 4
There was nothing pretentious about the ‘White Rose’. A two-storey wood-frame house with a bamboo frontage and a strong smell of drains. Murray pushed past the cyclo drivers, through a bead curtain into a square dark room with tables round the walls, divided by low wooden partitions. The only light came from a couple of blue bulbs which had the effect of illuminating only those objects that were white — teeth, tiny triangular pants, the tops of white socks which are the hallmark of U.S. civvies in South-East Asia.
There appeared to be a large number of girls in the room, most of them in varying degrees of undress. A jukebox was playing an unintelligible song and the smell of drains was replaced by sour cigars and insecticide. The main action was taking place in the centre of the room, where a huge American, wearing only his trousers and vest, had measured his length on the floor and lay groaning under a crowd of giggling girls who struggled helplessly to haul him to his feet.
Small hands were already grabbing at Murray’s arms and thighs, and little voices called up through the dark, ‘You number-one boy, you wanna massage?’ It was some minutes past eight and he was peering about for Ryderbeit and Finlayson, when another voice, close beside him, cried: ‘Murray Wilde — well I never!’
He swung round. The little man was leaning against the end of one of the partitions, his hands thrust down the pants of two girls who were otherwise naked. His pebble-glasses stared up at Murray under the blue light like dull metal knobs. ‘Surprised to see you alive,’ he said, swaying forward and steadying himself against the pair of little buttocks on either side. ‘Heard you made a forced landing up north yesterday? Phongsaly, wasn’t it? Must have been tricky.’
Murray nodded. ‘How are you, Hamish? Come here often?’
Napper chuckled, his lips loose and wet: ‘Twice a week. Can’t get too slow at my age. How ’bout you? Mixing work with pleasure, eh?’
Murray frowned. He found Napper’s presence faintly disquieting. He began glancing round again for Ryderbeit
