‘Not yet. Although he did invite me here this evening.’
‘Uh-huh.’ The American was smiling again, adding in an undertone: ‘He’s standing right behind you.’
CHAPTER 3
‘Ah, how d’you do, glad you could make it. Sorry I was late showing up — pressure of work. Got in safely? No crash-landings or anything? And your room at the hotel all right?’
George Finlayson was a stout man with a large sombre face, nicotine-stained moustache, hair receding from a broad damp brow. His manner was deadly earnest, his voice low and measured, with the slightly off-course accent of the expatriate. He reminded Murray of one of those melancholy weathermen on British television. Except that weathermen do not wear heavy chain-bracelets of 24-carat gold.
‘The electricity’s cut off every night at nine, you know,’ he went on, staring gloomily into his champagne. ‘It’s the old French generator — packed up completely after the big flood last year. The Russians promised us a new one, but it hasn’t arrived.’
There was an awkward pause, in which Murray was uncomfortably aware of the tall stooping figure of Luke still between them. ‘So what happens?’ Murray said at last.
‘No light, no air-conditioning. Except for the Americans — they’ve got their own generator.’
‘But what about before nine o’clock?’ Murray asked, glancing up at the half-lit chandeliers.
‘That comes from the Thais — cable across the Mekong. Only the stuff’s rationed, of course. Lot of trouble up in north-east Thailand at the moment. Communist insurgents, opium wars. Usual bother.’
‘It’s a damned scandal,’ Luke broke in: ‘The Russians got the deal all lined up, then they welshed because they said Souvanna’s Government’s been leaning too close to the Free World. They were supposed to deliver two months ago.’
‘So what about the Free World?’ said Murray. ‘Can’t we afford a generator?’
Luke Williams laughed and wagged his head: ‘Oh, we’re doing better than that, Mr Wilde! We’re building them a dam. Fifteen million dollars’ worth of construction at Nam Ngum, just twelve miles north of here. Nearly five hundred feet wide and a reservoir more than two hundred feet deep when it’s finished. It’s going to transform the whole economic structure of Laos, believe me!’
‘I do,’ Murray murmured, but he was thinking of more than the economy of little old Laos. The American’s words had planted in him the seeds of an idea. ‘How far have you got with this dam?’
‘They’ve been at it for three years,’ said Finlayson: ‘It’s a question of the jungle versus the mud versus inflation. At the moment all three are winning.’
‘The main barrage’s already complete,’ Luke said defiantly, ‘and the reservoir’s up to a hundred feet deep since the rains. It’ll only be a few more months before blast-off.’
George Finlayson made no comment, for at that moment the band of the Royal Lao Army which had been drawn up in darkness outside the French windows, looking like a cross between bell-hops and miniature Napoleonic hussars, broke into a chaotic rendering of what sounded like ‘Colonel Bogey’ — until Murray realised that the room had grown very still, everyone standing rigidly with glasses raised. They were listening to the Lao National Anthem. It seemed to go on interminably, a monotonous, toneless blaring and booming, while Murray noticed a Laotian in a smart business suit mounting a rostrum at the end of the room, followed by the Canadian ambassador.
The anthem was over at last. Finlayson, who had been standing as stiff as a sentry, hurriedly consulted a huge gold watch. ‘Speech time,’ he muttered. ‘Only half an hour and they’ll be cutting the lights. We’ve paid our homage — how about slipping out for a spot of dinner?’
Luke had moved away, and above the flutter of applause there was a sudden disturbance by the rostrum. In the centre of a growing crowd stood a diminutive, barrel-chested Laotian in a scarlet and green uniform ribbed with gold braid and oversized medals. He was shouting, in a high sing-song voice, eyes glaring red, gums flashing gold. The ambassador had paused on the steps of the rostrum, listening gaunt and stricken.
‘Trouble,’ Finlayson murmured. ‘That’s General Oum Rattiboum, commander of the Northern Province. He had one of his opium factories burnt down last month by the Chinese Nats — the Kuomintang mob who stayed on after Chiang Kai-shek pulled back to Formosa. Some row about paying Oum too high a levy after the last harvest. Oum’s answer was to send in a squadron of T-28’s of the Royal Lao Air Force and bomb the hell out of them. There’s talk of five hundred dead. The Americans and the ICC are bloody furious. They’ve been trying to get the Government to sack him.’
They were making their way towards the door now, while across the room a chorus of voices — shrieking Lao and plaintive European — was swelling dramatically.
‘It’s always like this,’ said Finlayson. ‘There’ll be more whisky and champagne, speeches and toasts, and it’ll quieten down — for the moment. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Oum attempts another coup — waits until Souvanna goes to Paris for his operation next month, then moves his troops down from the north.’
‘I thought they’d banned the coup?’ said Murray. They had crossed the cement lobby, down the steps past the cyclo-pousse drivers who were awake at once, running at them like dogs after a bone.
‘That won’t stop Oum,’ said Finlayson. ‘He’s already tried two coups in the past four years. And the last one damned nearly came off — except he wasted six precious hours at a dinner party with some Frenchmen up in Luang Prabang, when he should have been marching on Vientiane.’
‘What sort of coup — right-wing, left-wing?’
Finlayson shook his head. ‘Neither, old boy. With Oum it’s strictly personal.’
Murray grinned. ‘Are you a friend of his?’
‘Nodding
