‘Gladly.’ He took a quick pull and Ryderbeit grabbed the bottle from him, swallowing from it as though it were water.
‘Flyin’s over for today, soldier!’
Murray nodded. ‘We’ve still got a lot of work to do before we get that money into a nice Swiss bank, Sammy. Come on, let’s get aboard.’
CHAPTER 3
In the back of the truck, behind the great stack of crumpled black waterproof packages, lay a pile of empty triple-sackings marked in stencil: ‘Donated by the United States of America.’ While Ribinovitz drove down the steep winding track towards the Route Nationale Treize into Vientiane, Murray, Ryderbeit and No-Entry began stuffing these sacks full of dollars. Pol and Jackie were riding in the Land Rover behind with Taylor at the wheel.
The three of them worked frantically, despite the swaying, bouncing floor; and by the time they reached the highway, less than half the money had been stowed away. Already the cloud was lifting and they saw two L 19 spotter-planes circling like moths, coming down slowly from the direction of Wattay airfield. Murray wondered what they’d be able to see when they got over the dam? Just a few heavy track marks in the mud? While in about a couple of hours’ time a surprised Lao guard would saunter up on duty, to find his round-eyed boss lying dead from a heart attack.
Now that they were down on the flat again, the work became easier. No one seemed to be astir as they drove fast down the straight narrow track between the rice fields and the little open houses on stilts, with water buffalo snoozing up to their ears in water. By the time they reached the edge of the airfield all sixteen sacks were bulging to the neck and sealed with wire; and the three of them sat panting, limp and wet with exhaustion.
They drove on to the field through an unfamiliar, unguarded gate, far out in the corner near where the Ilyushin bombers lay rusting in the long grass. It was still too early for much activity, but there did seem to be a lot of small aircraft moving about in the middle-distance — probably more L 19 ‘Bird-dogs’ on special reconnaissance duty. Murray tried to look for them. He felt that hazy, heightened excitement that comes with drinking on an empty stomach and no sleep.
The plane was drawn up at the end of the first runway. A big, solid, oil-streaked C 46 — its rice cargo already being loaded from a forklift by a team of Laotians in baseball caps. The truck drew up about fifty feet away, just behind the Land Rover from which Pol climbed out, carrying the shotgun in one hand and his plastic bag of Johnny Walker in the other. ‘Ça va?’ he called, stepping back for Ribinovitz and Taylor who were breaking into a run towards the rice-loading team.
‘What happens now?’ said Murray.
Pol chuckled and handed up another bottle out of the bag. ‘It’s all under control, my dear Murray!’ He suddenly sounded more cheerful. ‘These sacks will be loaded with the others. The flight is all in order. The weather excellent.’
‘Excellent,’ Murray echoed, as Jackie got out of the Land Rover and stood smiling at him. He smiled back, listening to a small plane whining up into the grey morning.
Over by the side door of the C 46 Ribinovitz stood towering over the crew of Laotians working the forklift. The man in charge had started to jabber in a confusion of pidgin French and English; but Ribinovitz cut him short with what sounded very much like Lao. The man nodded and gave a shrill order to the driver of the forklift, who started to back his vehicle, empty, away from the loading-door in the plane, round to the rear of the tip-truck. Ribinovitz had already hurried back and let down the rear-flaps. The forklift stopped exactly opposite them. Murray watched and thought how easy and simple it all was. Perhaps just a little too easy, too simple. He began to open Pol’s new bottle of whisky, watching in a kind of daze as the two flat spatula forks rose on their pistons to the level of the truck floor. The driver edged forward, sliding the forks deep under the first half-dozen sacks, lifting them a few inches, then reversing slowly, carrying them over to the door of the C 46 where the kickers had now appeared — wiry little men in spotted camouflage who began to wheel the rice-sacks up the roller-tracks into the hull of the aircraft.
Murray went over and stood beside Jackie, glancing down at her hard swelling breasts — calculating that if each of the packets of fifty-dollar bills under her dress contained two hundred and fifty bills, those two breasts at this moment were worth twenty-five thousand dollars. Meanwhile, over by the plane, the next load of sacks was being pushed aboard — a couple of hundred million dollars, at least. Perhaps it was the hard light of day, or just the Johnny Walker, but he began to feel a dull sense of futility.
He said quietly, ‘Jacqueline, chérie!’ — leading her away from the others who were all busy watching the operation over by the plane. ‘Why don’t we just walk away — slowly — now? Over to the main gates and back into town. We’ll take the ferry and be in Thailand in an hour. We’ve got our passports. Our visas are valid. We can be in Bangkok by tonight — if we hurry and make the morning train.’
She had turned and was staring at him, her eyes bright and puzzled. ‘Are you drunk?’ she said suddenly.
‘A little.’
‘You’re mad!’
‘Not mad, love. Practical. Let’s get out while the going’s good. We only have to walk over there to the gates.’
‘Dressed like that!’
