‘Everything’s still all right?’ he said anxiously.
‘It hasn’t changed. Except that Maxwell’s on duty tomorrow night at Tân Sơn Nhất.’
‘And what the hell does that mean?’
She shrugged. ‘He didn’t tell me. He doesn’t tell me much, you know. But it’s a big airfield.’
‘Big enough for both of you?’
‘Why not? I have my job there, and I’ll just be working late tomorrow night in Greene’s office. There are some important papers to be cleared for Washington by Monday morning.’
‘What about Greene?’
‘He’s going to a dinner party at the American Embassy. Quite a big occasion, it sounds — the Prime Minister’s going to be there, and several ambassadors. If I know the General, he won’t be back before midnight.’
‘He will when that alert goes out — and fast! That’s still in order, is it?’
She looked up and suddenly smiled. ‘Well, of course. You don’t think I’m going to change my mind now, do you?’
He took her hand across the table. In the last ten days they had seen each other only twice, briefly, in crowded places, exchanging only the barest messages. He said, squeezing her hand: ‘You know exactly what you must do?’
‘Do I have to repeat it again?’ she sighed.
‘The last time.’
‘At twenty minutes to eleven I telephone down to the M.P.’s guardroom at the ATCO Three complex and ask to speak to you. If everything is all right, I tell you the surprise party is still on. If anything has changed — the schedule cancelled or put back — I tell you the party is off.’
‘And if the party is on?’
‘I shut off all the telex and telephone communications into the office, and at a quarter to eleven I send the alert. Then I drive out to the Caribou. And now what about all of you? No problems?’
‘Not yet. Ryderbeit and Jones have been working non-stop on their homework — maps, compass bearings, weather charts, special survival equipment — you’d think they were training for a moon-flight. Whatever else you may say about Ryderbeit, he’s a professional.’
‘And what about the American sergeant?’
Murray paused. ‘He’s all right. He’s young and green, but he’s willing.’
‘And supposing he changes his mind? — doesn’t want to risk three years in a military prison, even for five thousand dollars?’
‘Then I’ll just have to answer that phone and tell you the party’s off. We’ll meet later for a drink and drown our sorrows. Remember, if Sergeant Wace won’t play, we’re still in the clear. We’ve lost nothing — except the money.’
‘Except the money,’ she nodded: ‘Seven thousand million New Francs.’ She stood up. ‘I must go now. We’ll see each other tomorrow night at eleven — on the Caribou.’
‘On the Caribou,’ he said, leaning forward and kissing her quickly on the mouth.
‘Au revoir, Murray.’
He watched her walk swiftly between the groups of dapper Vietnamese, her wide hat swaying above their heads, out into the street where a couple of Americans stopped and stared mournfully after her.
Her chocolate sundae was still untouched on her plate.
CHAPTER 3
Sunday, 2100 hours. Brinx Square, Saigon
The olive-green military bus, with wire mesh across the windows, left on time — as it did every hour, on the hour — for the fifty-minute drive out to Tân Sơn Nhất Airport. Among the dozen or so passengers — all apparently American, and all in uniform — were three men in freshly laundered jungle-green combat fatigues and polished boots, carrying no visible luggage. They had boarded the bus separately and sat in different seats, two of them pretending to doze, the other reading Time.
The bus stopped at several points on the route, picking up and discharging passengers. The ride was free and there were no checks; only at the gates of the airfield did a sullen little Vietnamese M.P. peer up inside to make sure there were none of his compatriots aboard. The American M.P.’s waved them through with little more than a glance; it was usually only taxis and private cars that invited scrutiny. Most of the passengers disembarked at the main military terminal. The final stop, about a mile and a half away, and well inside the perimeter, was ATCO III compound; and for this last stretch, except for one sleepy Negro and an elderly Marine warrant officer, Murray, Ryderbeit and No-Entry Jones had the bus to themselves.
They were all sweating heavily now: their chests, under the flimsy tropical fatigues, strapped across with the twin-pack Air U.S.A. survival kits containing dehydrated chocolate, bouillon cubes, salt and water-purification tablets, magnetic compass, fishing-line, flares, torch, toilet paper, needle and thread, hacksaw blade, and a first aid pack, including Benzedrine tablets, morphine and anti-sunburn cream. Just before leaving they had each taken one of these Benzedrine tablets, and as the bus neared ATCO III their senses were already beginning to respond to the quickening flow of adrenalin, the heightening of senses compounded with a pleasant relaxation of the nerves.
No-Entry was also wearing a wad of maps — USAF one-millionth-scale charts of every area of the Indo-Chinese peninsula from the southernmost tip of the Mekong Delta up to the borders of Burma and China — and all of them carried in the deep ammunition pockets of their trousers four clips of .30 calibre M16 rounds. Ryderbeit also had two hand-grenades with three-second fuses.
It was a dark night, but the latest weather reports that evening from MACV headquarters had promised that the next twelve hours should be ‘relatively clear and operational’.
ATCO III compound was a dreary sprawl of sheds, mud and metal roads, bunkers and fuel storage tanks. The only well-lit building was the canteen. At exactly 9.55 Murray got off the bus and led the way in, with the other two strolling a few yards behind. Wace
