Ryderbeit sat stroking his long throat. ‘We’ll think o’ something. Fly into Burma maybe, or up to Kathmandu. Use one o’ the opium trails down into India. As you said yourself, with that kind o’ money you can buy a whole Government.’
‘You go ahead, Sammy. You can have my films of the dam, for what they’re worth, and I’ll put you in touch with Pol, and with young Sergeant Wace of the U.S. Military Police. As for Mrs Conquest — well, you’ll have to chat her up yourself, if you still want that Red Alert. You’re on your own now.’
‘And you?’
‘Me? I think too much.’ He grinned and poured more whisky. ‘Sorry, I’ve got the wind up and I’m taking off — on the morning plane to Bangkok.’
‘You booked?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a crowded flight down to Bangkok. Might not be a seat.’
‘Don’t be so optimistic. I’ve learnt at least one truth as a journalist — there’s no such thing as a full airplane or a full newspaper. Only don’t worry, this is one frontpage story that’s going to remain between just you and me, and Filling-Station’s grave. Cheers!’
CHAPTER 6
The morning was damp and heavy, with a curtain of rain creeping across the fields towards the edge of the runway. Murray stood at the airport bar, past Police and Immigration Control, and risked a beer before take-off, casting a sore sleepless eye over his fellow passengers. Mostly Laotian and Thai businessmen, a couple of families, a few French traders. Nothing out of the ordinary; nothing to suggest the presence of a hired assassin. But then nothing, he remembered, was quite as you expected in the little Kingdom of Laos.
The loudspeaker was jabbering, passengers beginning to move towards the departure doors. A hostess greeted him with a brilliant smile, despite his morning stubble, and gave him his boarding card. Halfway across to the Royal Thai Airways plane a tiny old Laotian lady walking just ahead of him suddenly swayed and crumpled on to the tarmac. He went to help her, taking hold of one frail arm, then paused, astonished at her weight. Under her silk blouse and ankle-length sin she must have been wearing her 24-carat gold like a suit of chainmail. She began shrieking angrily in Lao as another old crone hurried to her aid.
Murray moved on, thinking, And the best of Lao luck to her! She’d be a rich little old lady at the end of her journey; whereas what did he have to show for his four days’ trip? A few cuts and bruises, and a hangover.
A moment later the rain hit the tarmac and he began to run.
PART 6: THE FAT MAN
CHAPTER 1
‘Monsieur Pol. Please.’
The eyes behind the desk slid sideways and a fine-boned man in a dark business suit moved out from a glass partition, bowing with fingers steepled under his brow in the traditional Thai greeting.
‘Yes sir?’
‘Charles Pol. The King Rama suite. He’s expecting me.’
‘Your name sir?’
‘Wilde.’
‘Yes sir. One moment please, Mister Wilde.’ He bowed again and glided back behind the partition.
Murray spoke to the first man at the desk, leaving his canvas grip-bag with him; then stood in the big cool lobby and waited. It was crowded, mostly with American tourists — slouched grey creatures in expensive casual clothes, with that tired baffled look of people worn-out by too much leisure. Several minutes passed. He bought a copy of the Bangkok World and scanned the foreign news. Finlayson’s death was on page one, in a boxed paragraph datelined AFP Vientiane, under the headline: Mystery Slaying of British Banker. The Laotian police were stepping up their hunt for the killers, believed to be bandits. But there were still no details as to how he had been killed: only that he had been murdered during the previous day at his riverside house in Vientiane.
The Thai receptionist had moved soundlessly up to him. ‘Mister Wilde. Please, this way.’ Murray followed him across a quarter of an acre of carpet that lapped round the soles of his shoes, up some shallow stairs past the Rama Coffee Shop and Cocktail Lounge, shelves of gifts, magazines, jewellery, down a long cool corridor, stopping at a varnished door. ‘Please sir, enter!’
Murray stepped into damp scented heat. A girl rose from behind a desk and led him over to a sheet of plate-glass, like an observation window. Inside, under stark strip lighting, sat a row of girls, all identically pretty and expressionless, in short white hospital coats. Murray pointed to the nearest one to save time, and she came out with fingertips touching, smiling as she took his hand and led him down a linoleum passage to a second door. From inside came the thump and splatter of hands on wet flesh. She was already helping him off with his jacket when a voice called through the discreet nightclub lighting: ‘Ah mon cher Murray! Comment ça va?’
‘Ça va,’ said Murray, unbuttoning his shirt. ‘And you?’
‘Ah, this city! Too many Americans in too many cars. I’m not used to it. Ayee!’ he cried, as the girl over him began a rapid drumroll on the back of his thighs.
Murray looked across at the adjacent bench and could just make out a mountain of flesh lolling on its
