Ryderbeit’s head jerked up from his drink. ‘Responsible? For what?’
‘For his death,’ Murray said calmly, reaching for the tumbler in Ryderbeit’s hands. ‘He was killed because of us, Sammy — because of the operation.’
Ryderbeit brought out his cigar case and tapped a Romeo y Julieta into his palm, biting the end and spitting delicately between his feet. ‘So you think he was killed because he knew too much — was planning to run to teacher and tell tales out o’ school?’
‘It’s possible. Only it doesn’t have much scope. It would give both of us a motive, as well as No-Entry and Pol. There aren’t any other candidates I know of — unless you do?’
Ryderbeit sat turning the cigar slowly round in the candle flame. ‘I don’t know quite what you’re getting at, soldier. If somebody else is interested in our little plan, why go and kill Filling-Station? He was the vital link — the one who was goin’ to put the finger on the next flush-out. And he’s not goin’ to be much use to anyone now.’
‘Precisely. That’s why I think he was killed.’ Murray took a long pull at the whisky. ‘No Sammy, I’m thinking of another possibility. And if I’m right, we’re both in bad trouble. Let’s look at it from the other side. If you’re someone with a special interest in stopping this operation, and you somehow get to hear about it from the Laos end, what are you going to do? You get a tip-off that a gang of Westerners are planning a huge heist of U.S. greens in Vietnam. What you also know is that part of the operation involves Laos — which is going to mean a security problem, to put it mildly — and that one of the conspirators is none other than trusty old Finlayson of FARC — which is going to be an embarrassment. You can’t have him arrested because he hasn’t done anything. You could perhaps try and pull some strings to get him sacked. But then maybe Finlayson can pull strings too — he has a lot of important friends here in Laos, which is one of the reasons why Pol chose him in the first place. So if you push it you may find yourself with an international crisis on your hands.
‘But your alternative — if you work by the book, that is — is to sit back and pray it won’t happen, at least not right here under your nose in Laos. On the other hand, you could inform Saigon and the U.S. Treasury, and let them get on with it their end. In which case,’ he added, taking another gulp of whisky, ‘we’re blown.’
‘We don’t know we are,’ Ryderbeit snarled.
‘Probably we’re not. Because again — unless they tortured Finlayson before they put the nail in — they may not know exactly what he did know. And that’s important. They may not have known about the Vietnam angle at all — just that Finlayson had become bent and was going to move in on something big. So they skip the polite diplomatic courtesies and take a short cut. They arrange — in the official CIA jargon — to have Finlayson “terminated with extreme prejudice”. A little unofficial dirty work. They have him removed.’
‘The CIA? Conquest and his lads?’
‘It depends how seriously you take them.’
‘They’re serious. But how would Conquest have heard about it? Unless through his lovely little wife, who just happened to hear someone mutterin’ in his sleep about one billion dollars!’ He was sitting on the edge of the bed now, smiling brightly through the smoke. ‘Eh soldier?’
Murray sat as relaxed as he could, watching Ryderbeit’s long thin hands under the candlelight. ‘She doesn’t know a damned thing,’ he said at last. ‘And even if she did, he’d be the last person she’d tell.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘She doesn’t like him, for a start. And as for talking in my sleep, there was no sleep.’
Ryderbeit knocked a finger of ash on to the floor, crushing it under his suede boot. ‘You’d better be right, Murray boy. For your sake as well as Mrs Conquest’s. As for Filling-Station — well, so it was the spooks put the nail into the poor sod. But where does that leave us?’
‘Washed up. The show’s over, Sammy. Let’s cut our losses and clear out before they start sending little men with hammers and nails after us while we’re asleep.’
‘Now wait a minute. You’re being selfish, soldier. You’re not the only one, y’know. There’s still me and Jones —’
‘I’m not stopping you. I’m just passing.’
‘Passing applecrap!’ Ryderbeit roared, slamming the tumbler down on the table and dashing the candle over into darkness. ‘We don’t know they know anything. We can’t prove a bloody thing.’ He got the candle going again with his lighter, then looked across the flame with his mean, crooked smile: ‘Shall I tell you what’s wrong with you? You think too bloody much. There’s more than one thousand million bucks sitting somewhere out there waiting for us — remember! And you’re trying to funk out on some lousy half-baked hunch that Finlayson blew us. How could he? What did he have to tell them? — that some nutty scribbler’s dreamt up a plan to knock off a billion of Uncle Sam’s greenbacks? Don’t make me laugh! You think they’d take it seriously?’
‘Finlayson’s dead — they’re going to have to take that seriously. Besides, even if we aren’t blown, we can’t act without Finlayson. We can’t even find out the time of the next flush-out.’
‘To hell we can’t! What about this Frenchman o’ yours down in Cambodia? He’s on the inside, isn’t he — just as much as Finlayson ever was?’
Murray hesitated.
