He turned gratefully back to Luke: ‘Listen, there is something you can do for me. I’m only in Laos for a few days — a kind of stopover between assignments — but I’d be very interested’ — he had unconsciously dropped his voice so that the American had to lower his head to hear — ‘in doing a rice-drop.’
Luke straightened up, smiling brightly: ‘Sure. No problem. It’s been done, though.’
‘Everything’s been done,’ said Murray. ‘I’m interested in some special camera effects, early morning stuff — sunrise on take-off — and as far north as possible. The highest drops you do.’
The American’s smile had changed to a slow frown. ‘That’s very high, and very north. Nearly nine thousand feet if you want the limit, which is where it begins to get rather close to Chicom territory.’
‘So? You fly up there — I want to see it.’
‘You never done a rice-drop before?’
‘No. That’s why I’m asking you.’
‘I gather it can be pretty hairy up north. Specially if the weather gets bad. And it’s all the same in those mountains — high or low. We do a pretty simple drop just forty minutes from here, over Xieng Khouang. You’ll get your kicks there if a storm comes up.’
‘No good,’ said Murray. ‘I’ve had all the kicks I want in life — I’m getting old now. I want a genuine drop as far north as you can get me cleared for, and taking off as early as possible in the morning.’
Luke Williams nodded dubiously. ‘I’ll see what I can do. They may insist on a personal liability disclaimer, and that takes time.’
‘Why? I’ve signed plenty of them before — in much worse situations than this. Unless, of course, you’re going to tell me that you lose too high a percentage of your rice-drop sorties over north Laos —’
‘Oh no, don’t get me wrong, it’s just a formality. You know what civilians are! We’re not dealing with the military up here.’
‘I’ll sign whatever you give me,’ Murray said.
‘No other family — wife or kids?’ The boy spoke as though he were personally concerned.
Murray shook his head: ‘Nobody you’ll have to worry about if anything happens to me. You or Air U.S.A. or anybody else. With me it’ll be like a stone in the ocean.’
The American stood turning his glass slowly round in his hand; he was drinking iced tea. ‘If there’s any trouble,’ he said at last, ‘I think I can fix it through Colonel Buchbinder. He has the last word on all aid flights.’
Murray shot him a quick, reassuring smile: ‘Thanks, Luke. But try and see if you can do it without Colonel Buchbinder. I want it official, of course — but not too official. I don’t want to find myself doing a straight PR job for Air U.S.A. — “Hands Across the Sea” and all that crap.’
‘I know just how you feel,’ Luke said, full of earnest understanding. ‘I think I can get it fixed on the level, Mr Wilde. You’re staying at the Friends’ Bawdy House, I guess?’
‘Certainly.’ They grinned at each other, man-to-man. ‘When do you think you’ll know?’
‘If it’s on, I should know by tomorrow noon.’
‘Just call the hotel bar and leave a message.’ Murray hesitated a moment, reaching out for a fresh drink off a passing tray. ‘By the way, Luke, do you know someone here called George Finlayson?’
‘You mean, Filling-Station?’
‘Who?’
‘That’s what he’s known as here — never without a drink in his hand, and no one’s ever seen him drunk yet. He’s a Britisher, you know. The man with the best job in the world.’
‘He works for the International Monetary Fund, doesn’t he?’
Luke laughed: ‘Well, IMF pays his salary, if that’s what you mean. He’s actually employed by FARC — Foreign Aid Reserve Control. One of these crazy outfits that try to keep the Laotian economy going. The IMF backs it, with most of the funds coming from the U.S., Britain, France and Japan. The idea is to stabilise the kip by buying it up with foreign exchange at a free rate of five hundred to the dollar.’
‘And what exactly does Finlayson do?’
‘Finlayson is FARC — literally. Sole employee, along with a very dishy little Vietnamese girl who’s supposed to work the telex. Once a week the National Bank of Laos sends him a note of how much the kip has dropped through the floor — usually about ten to fifteen million — and Filling-Station gets off a telex to the IMF man in Bangkok who arranges for the deficit to be made up in hard currency. After that, his only job is to drive down to the Bank on Fa Ngum Street — a little villa with two rooms and a vault — and collect the money in sacks which he takes back to his own house and burns in a special incinerator we built for him in the garden.
‘To tell the truth,’ he added, ‘when FARC first started operations, they were dumping the money in the Mekong and the fishermen were catching it as far down as Thakhek. What was known as “keeping the kip afloat”. It could only happen in Laos.’
‘How come they gave the job to an Englishman?’ (All Murray knew about George Finlayson’s past was that he had been a banker in Hong Kong.)
‘I heard he got it through an ad in the London Times. Anyway, he sure landed himself a deal — one hell of a salary for about half a day’s work a week, with no tax — and
