‘Me? But I shall be with them, my dear Murray! I shall accompany the porters, I shall supervise them, command them. There will be no question of a betrayal. My interests are your interests. Why should there be a conflict?’
‘Why indeed? Because you’re European? A nice honourable man with a white skin who’s not going to do down a couple of madcap adventurers you’ve bumped into in South-East Asia?’ He shook his head. ‘Still not good enough, Charles.’
Pol gave another sigh and filled their teacups to the brim with Johnny Walker. ‘You forget that I am a member of the Cao Đài!’
‘Cao Đài — Hòa Hảo — Bình Xuyên — experienced religious gangsters!’
‘They are part Confucian, Buddhist and Catholic,’ Pol said evenly. ‘And they are experienced, certainly. But they are not gangsters — at least, not in our sense. They have run these countries for more than a century. Just because they do not have the ear of the great powers — the Communists and the Americans — does not meant they are not to be trusted. You think you could trust the Viet Cong or the Americans more?’ He leant forward and patted Murray’s knee. ‘The Cao Đài are professional businessmen — but they are also honourable men. Not like some of our great Capitalist gentlemen in the West. The Supreme All-Seeing Eye is not a piece of oriental chicanery. It has virtues, standards. You talk very easily of gangsterism. But even our own gangsters — even the most humdrum of the criminal world — have their standards, their codes of honour. They have no contracts that can be signed and legally enforced, my dear Murray. It is the world of lawyers and bankers and middle-men that is often far more dishonourable. The Cao Đài are men of honour.’
Murray sat for some time sipping his whisky, watching the damp swamp that reached out to the elephant-grass and the scorched, misty hills beyond. Ryderbeit, who had listened only half comprehending, looked angry and dispirited. ‘All right,’ Murray said at last: ‘Tell me about the bombing of the Cercle Sportif in Saigon yesterday.’
Pol looked up quickly, almost startled. ‘What of it?’
‘Who did it?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You know what happened. The place was blown to bits. They were supposed to have been after General Greene. Perhaps they were. But a little fellow called Colonel Luong, one of the rougher lads in the Arvin, just happened to be having lunch opposite at the time — and General Greene was late. What’s more, his secretary — none other than Mrs Conquest — got a phone call a few minutes before it happened, warning her to keep away from the place. How they got her number, and knew she was going, God knows — unless someone’s been monitoring my calls at the hotel. What’s more, they warned me too. Not directly — an old Vietnamese boy in the hotel told my cyclo-driver to take a long way round.’
‘So?’ Pol was looking no longer startled, but worried.
Murray gave a lame smile: ‘Come on, Charles, was it the Cao Đài, the VC, or somebody we don’t know about?’
‘I don’t know, Murray.’
‘Is Colonel Luong a member of the Cao Đài?’
‘I don’t know Colonel Luong.’
Murray nodded wearily and reached for his drink. ‘So who warned me and Mrs Conquest?’
‘I have no idea, Murray. I have absolutely no idea.’
They sat for some moments in silence. It was Ryderbeit who broke it: ‘When do we get out of here?’
‘This evening,’ said Pol: ‘By the same means you came.’
Ryderbeit grinned: ‘That’s what I like to hear. You go back the cushy way, through the border into Cambodia, and we hit the hard road back to Saigon.’
‘If you insist —’ Pol began.
‘I don’t insist, Mister Pol. I did that run once — I can do it again.’ He gave a sidelong leer at Murray. ‘One thing I would like, though. More of this Scotch. Because I’m going to get thirsty before this evening.’
Pol heaved himself out of his chair.
‘So, what do you think, Sammy?’
Ryderbeit curled his lip over his teeth. ‘I think we’re bein’ bloody suckers, soldier.’
‘We’re in Pol’s hands.’
‘You bet we’re in Pol’s hands!’
‘Think of anything better?’
‘Nope.’
The insects started up in the falling afternoon light. ‘He said the Cao Đài are honourable men.’
‘Like hell. Perhaps they are. They got to be, with all that bloody money!’
‘Sammy.’ Murray gazed across the swamp. ‘Do we have to go for so much? Does it have to be the whole damned whack in one swoop?’
‘What d’yer mean?’
‘Over one million quid each. What are we going to do with it? What can anyone do with that much loose cash?’
‘You mean, cut them in for more? For extra insurance? Don’t be bloody daft! If those little bastards are goin’ to act straight, they’re goin’ to do it for thirty million, or they’re not goin’ to do it at all!’
‘Why not try to be more moderate? Try for something a little more practical — manual?’
‘Manual?’
‘Something handy — like a few bundles of Centuries that we can carry out in a suitcase, for instance. Then the only problem’s going to be Customs.’
‘Screw the Customs. You know your trouble —’
‘I think too much.’
‘Think too much, and not greedy enough.’
‘And you? What are you going to do with a hundred million plus?’
‘A lot o’ things. I can think of a whole dictionary o’ things to do with it. It may look trouble to you, soldier, but not to me. Certainly not to Samuel D. Ryderbeit!’ He gave a soft cackle in the dusk: ‘You got problems, soldier. You got a hunger problem — back to front!’
PART 9: FLUSH-OUT
CHAPTER
