She wriggled her nose into his neck and was suddenly still. She felt no guilt nor shame with Murray, just a satisfied, dangerous happiness; she had come to him and run amok with him because she was lonely and bored and looking for adventure. But this adventure was altogether too outrageous, too tantalising for her mind to grasp seriously. Mais alors je m’en fous! she thought: almost anything was better than life in this drab, sandbagged, boorish city where the pavement cafes had long been closed and even the trees on the boulevards were shrivelled by fumes or bulldozed into turnpikes.
She said softly, without moving: ‘I’ll do anything you want, Murray. Anything.’
She was in the bathroom when the knock came. Murray got up, wrapping a towel round him, and called through the outside door: ‘Qui est là?’
A quiet cackle reached him through the panelled teak: ‘Caught yer on the job, Murray boy?’
He unlocked the door and stared into the dark passage. Ryderbeit was dressed from chin to toes in black leather; his black suede flying-boots were replaced by leather ones, strapped across and buckled, with steel caps and heels; there was a mauve silk scarf at his throat and a pair of goggles dangled round his neck. In his hand was a crash-helmet. ‘Can I come in?’
Murray stood back. ‘And what in hell are you doing? Going to a fancy-dress ball as Marshal Ky?’
Ryderbeit stepped in and stood leering round him. ‘Is the lucky lady who it ought to be?’ he whispered, with a glance at the bathroom door, as the shower came on with a loud hiss. Murray told him, and added: ‘Can it wait?’
‘Not more than a quarter of an hour, it can’t.’
‘I’ll talk to you downstairs.’
‘Bring your passport and something warm to wear. And make sure you don’t have any American or Vietnamese documents on you — Press cards or anything else. Just your passport with that lovely Irish harp.’
‘What’s up?’
‘We’re goin’ on a trip.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ll tell you downstairs.’ He nodded again at the bathroom. ‘Doin’ all right?’
‘All right,’ said Murray, showing him back to the door.
‘But don’t spend all day kissin’ her goodbye. We haven’t got a lot o’ time.’
Murray closed the door and locked it, turning back to the bathroom where the shower had stopped. He went in and told her bluntly what had happened. She nodded, standing naked with her back to him, scooping her hair up in front of the mirror. ‘And he didn’t even tell you where you’re going?’ she said finally.
‘He’ll tell me downstairs. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to go.’
She shrugged rather too obviously. ‘You go. I can’t see you in the evening anyway. It’s nearly five now. I have to be back at the villa before six.’
He left her and began to dress in the bedroom. Remembering the rice-drop, he wore three sweatshirts this time, and took a couple of newspapers and a polo-necked wool sweater he’d bought last winter when he was up in the Central Highlands. She came out and dressed rapidly beside him, without a word.
‘The chateau,’ he said; ‘the vineyard in Bourgogne. It’s not all a castle in the air, you know.’
She smiled faintly. ‘It’s amusing to build castles in the air, don’t you think?’ She’d built several in her time — playing games that could never be won. She’d already decided to play this one as long as it lasted, even if she did lose all in the end. She kissed him quickly on the mouth and he unlocked the door again.
‘I don’t know how long I’ll be away — probably not more than a day. I’ll ring you when I get back.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and was gone.
He found Ryderbeit down in the terraced bar drinking whisky at one of the marble tables. ‘All wrapped up nice and warm, soldier? I didn’t see Mrs Conquest leave.’
‘She’s discreet. Now where are we going?’
‘Little place called Dong San. Up near the Cambodian border — a hundred and sixty miles north-west of here.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Be surprised if you had. It’s not on most reference maps. In an insecure zone, as they say. Drink the rest o’ my whisky — you’re goin’ to need it. And put your sweater on — we got to leave right away.’
‘From here?’
‘From right outside,’ he said, snapping his fingers for the bill.
Murray still carried the sweater and newspapers as he walked, uncomprehending, out into the steaming heat where Ryderbeit was shooing away a small crowd, mostly children and youths, who had stopped to admire a huge motorcycle perched on the kerb. Ryderbeit pushed his way through them and called back at Murray: ‘Get that bloody sweater on — and pull the neck up over your mouth. This beast really travels!’
Murray examined it. A 750-c.c. Honda — the whole machine painted fire-engine red except for the wheel-spokes and twin exhaust-pipes on either side, like four silver trumpets. The speedometer registered some horrible, impossible speed. ‘We’re not going to the Cambodian border on this?’ he said, almost laughing.
‘Don’t argue. I’ve lined up some most important people for us to meet — not the least of them, your friend Pol. He’s an amusing bastard, I’ll give him that. I don’t like his politics, mind, but he’s a sound drinkin’ companion — and that’s somethin’ I never quarrel with. Now get dressed and let’s be movin’!’ He yelled some obscenities at the last of the crowd, as he climbed astride the broad red leather saddle.
Murray said wearily, ‘Look, Sammy, I know my Vietnam. There’s no road to the border. There hasn’t been since 1963.’
‘There are two roads, you bastard. French roads — Biên Hòa up to Tây Ninh, then on up past An Loc. And don’t tell me they’re closed because no one, except for a few
