‘Looking for somebody?’ said Napper: ‘Friend or foe?’
‘Nobody. Be seeing you, Hamish.’
‘Go careful!’ the little man cried, still gripping the girls’ bottoms and grinning beatifically now: ‘No more crash-landings. Might hurt yourself next time.’ Murray began to cross the floor, knowing that Napper was watching him: round the American who seemed to have had a relapse, his cropped head sunk between his knees, bawling dismally, ‘I weigh two hundred and fifty pounds without a hard-on!’
Ryderbeit was lying back along the partition bench, wearing a cream slub-silk jacket over his black shirt. His companion was one of the house-girls sitting astride his knee, wearing nothing.
‘Hello there, soldier! Filling-Station with you?’
‘No. He’s not here?’
‘Not yet,’ said Ryderbeit, patting the little brown belly on his lap. ‘Sit down and order yourself a girl.’ But one had already perched herself against Murray’s hip and began listlessly fluttering her fingers between his legs. He brushed her away, saying: ‘You know Hamish Napper? — works with the British Embassy?’
Ryderbeit nodded. ‘Old fellah who smokes.’
‘He’s over by the door. And he knows about our crash yesterday.’
‘So what?’
‘He’s with the Political Section, that’s what. Intelligence — D.I.5. I thought Air U.S.A. weren’t too keen to publicise their failures?’
Ryderbeit shrugged: ‘Damn right they’re not. But in a place like this’ — he began patting his girl’s rump as she wriggled further up his thighs — ‘you don’t keep any secret for long out here.’
‘There’d better be one that is kept,’ Murray muttered, watching Ryderbeit’s girl writhing with routine enthusiasm. Her companion took the cue and nimbly unzipped Murray’s trousers. He zipped them up again and Ryderbeit laughed: ‘Shy, soldier?’
‘I thought this was going to be a business meeting with Finlayson?’
‘Business with pleasure,’ Ryderbeit said, pinching the pair of nipples in front of him. ‘By the way, I had an interesting afternoon. Took a little trip up to that dam o’ yours. Pretty spooky place.’
Murray glanced at the two girls. ‘Can they understand what we’re saying?’
‘Sure, they both got Ph.D.’s in English Lit. Haven’t you, darling!’ he cried, giving his girl a sharp smack on the buttocks that made her squeal. ‘You’re being over-sensitive, Murray boy. Relax.’
Murray looked round the room again. Still no sign of Finlayson, although it was now nearly half-past eight. ‘So what do you think of the dam? Could you make a landing on it?’
‘For one billion greenbacks I could! Though I don’t say it’s goin’ to be a nice easy pitch. Especially in the dark, with no radar. The length’s about all right — always providin’ she’s a Caribou. But the width’s nasty. It’s not the curve I mind — that could even be a help, if I bring her down on a left torque, featherin’ the port engine just before touch-down, which means correctin’ a slight drift to the left. But even with a Caribou, I’m not goin’ to have more than a couple o’ feet to spare on each side. We’ll have to have strong flares — Finlayson can arrange that — and somehow we’ve got to fix that bum overseer, Donovan. He’s a nosey bastard, said I was the second person coinin’ up for a snoop round in three days.’
‘A few thousand dollars should square him.’
‘It’s not the money that’s the problem — it’s havin’ an extra person in on the know. Personally, I’d be in favour of disposing of Mister Donovan as quietly as possible.’
Murray peered at him through the half-light. How did you rate a man’s life against a billion dollars? Even a dull broken life like Tom Donovan’s? The second girl was crooning in his ear: ‘You wanna whisky, Johnny?’
‘Beer,’ said Murray. Across the room the drunk American was being dragged by two compatriots towards the door where Hamish Napper still stood propped immobile between his two half-naked acolytes. ‘Our friend Finlayson’s taking his time,’ he murmured.
‘Not like him at all,’ said Ryderbeit. ‘He’s reputed to be the last punctual man left in Laos.’
Murray’s girl came back with his beer, looking plump and bad-tempered. ‘Five hundred kip,’ she said, without sitting down. He paid her, looking hard at Ryderbeit.
‘If we’re going to start talking about murdering people, you can count me out, Sammy.’
‘Now, now, soldier, nobody said anythin’ about murder. Nothin’ specific, that is. Just a gentle hint. Because for a share of one billion you can’t expect it’s goin’ to be all kid gloves and satin slippers, can yer?’ He stood up suddenly, toppling the girl off his thighs like a doll. ‘If Filling-Station’s goin’ to keep us waiting, I’m goin’ to enjoy myself.’ He started to walk round the table, leading the girl who reached no higher than his waist, then paused, leering back round the partition. ‘What about you? Blown yer head o’ steam with that lovely French round-eye, I s’pose — you lucky bastard!’
Murray watched them disappear together through a curtain at the back of the room. His own girl began murmuring about the price of a massage, but when he shook his head a third time, she walked away. He made his beer last ten minutes. When it was finished there was still no sign of Finlayson. He got up and crossed to the door. Hamish Napper had disappeared — whether outside or through the back, Murray had not seen. There was no telling how long Ryderbeit took to be pleasured; and the atmosphere in the room was stifling, making his eyes smart. He wanted fresh air, and time to think. It had been naive, he realised, to have assumed that Ryderbeit’s talents could be purchased merely with the promise of money. The man’s experience had probably convinced
