Things went as planned. Ricardo flew to Chiang Mai, spent an abstemious night at the Rincome, and at six o’clock two Chinese, not one, called for him and drove him north for some hours till they came to a Hakka village. Leaving the car, they walked for half an hour till they reached an empty field with a hut at one end of it. Inside the hut stood “a dandy little Beechcraft,” brand new, and inside the Beechcraft sat Tiu, with a lot of maps and documents on his lap, in the seat beside the pilot’s. The rear seats had been removed to make space for the gunny bags. A couple of Chinese crushers stood off watching, and the over-all mood, Ricardo implied, was not all he would have liked.
“First I got to empty my pockets. My pockets are very personal to me, Voltaire. They are like a lady’s handbag. Mementoes. Letters. Photographs. My Madonna. They retain everything. My passport, my pilot’s licence, my money . . . even my bracelets,” he said and lifted his brown arms so that the gold links jingled.
After that, he said with a frown of disapproval, there were yet more documents to sign. Such as a power of attorney, signing over whatever bits of Ricardo’s life were left to him after his Indocharter contract. Such as various confessions to “previous technically illegal undertakings,” several of them—Ricardo asserted in considerable outrage—performed on behalf of Indocharter. One of the Chinese crushers even turned out to be a lawyer. Ricardo considered this particularly unsporting.
Only then did Tiu unveil the maps, and the instructions, which Ricardo now reproduced in a blend of his own style and Tiu’s: “ ‘You head north, Mr. Ricardo, and you keep heading north. Maybe you clip the edge off Laos, maybe you stay over the Shans, I don’t give a damn. Flying is your business, not mine. Fifty miles inside the China border you pick up the Mekong and follow it. Then you keep going north till you find a little hill town called Tienpao stuck on a tributary of that very famous river. Head due east twenty miles, you find a landing-strip—one white flare, one green—you do me a favour please. You land there. A man will be waiting for you. He speaks very lousy English, but he speaks it. Here is half one-dollar bill. This man will have the other half. Unload the opium. This man will give you a package, and certain particular instructions. The package is your receipt, Mr. Ricardo. When you return, bring it with you and obey all instructions most absolutely, including especially your place of landing. Do you understand me entirely, Mr. Ricardo?’ ”
“What kind of package?” Jerry asked.
“He don’t say and I don’t care. ‘You do that,’ he tell me, ‘and keep your big mouth shut, Mr. Ricardo, and my associates will look after you all your life like you are their son. Your children, they look after—your girls. Your girl in Bali. All your life they will be grateful men. But you screw them, or you go bigmouthing round town, they definitely kill you, Mr. Ricardo, believe me. Not tomorrow maybe, not the next day, but they definitely kill you. We got a contract, Mr. Ricardo. My associates don’t never break a contract. They are very legal men.’ I got sweat on me, Voltaire. I am in perfect condition, a fine athlete, but I sweat. ‘Don’t you worry, Mr. Tiu,’ I tell him. ‘Mr. Tiu, sir. Any time you want to fly opium into Red China, Ricardo’s your man.’ Voltaire, believe me, I was very concerned.”
Ricardo squeezed his nose as if it were smarting with sea water.
“Hear this, Voltaire. Listen most attentively. When I was young and crazy, I flew twice into Yunnan Province for the Americans. To be a hero, one must do certain crazy things, and if you crash, maybe one day they get you out. But each time I flew, I look down at the lousy brown earth and I see Ricardo in a wood cage. No women, extremely lousy food, no place to sit, no place to stand or sleep, chains on my arms, no status or position assured to me. ‘See the imperialist spy and running dog.’ Voltaire, I do not like this vision. To be locked all my life in China for running opium? I am not enthusiastic. ‘Sure, Mr. Tiu! Bye-bye! See you this afternoon!’ I have to consider most seriously.”
The brown haze of the sinking sun suddenly filled the room. On Ricardo’s chest, despite the perfection of his condition, the same sweat had gathered. It lay in beads over the matted black hair and on his oiled shoulders.
“Where was Lizzie in all this?” Jerry asked again.
Ricardo’s answer was nervous and already angry. “In Vientiane! On the moon! In bed with Charlie! What the hell do I care?”
“Did she know of the deal with Tiu?”
Ricardo gave only a scowl of contempt.
Time to go, Jerry thought. Time to light the last fuse and run. Below, Mickey was making a great hit with Ricardo’s women. Jerry could hear his singsong chattering, broken by their highpitched laughter, like the laughter of a whole class at girls’ school.
“So away you flew,” he said. He waited, but Ricardo remained lost in thought.
“You took off and headed north,” Jerry said.
Lifting his eyes a little, Ricardo held Jerry in a bullish, furious stare, till the invitation to describe his own heroic feat finally got the better of him.
“I never flew so good in my life. Never. I was magnificent. That little black Beechcraft. North a hundred miles because I don’t trust nobody. Maybe those clowns have got me locked on a radar screen somewhere? I don’t take no chances. Then east, but very slowly, very low over the mountains, Voltaire. I fly between the cow’s legs, okay? In the war we have little landingstrips up there, crazy listening places in the middle of badland. I flew those places, Voltaire. I know them. I find one right at the top of a mountain, you can reach it only from the air. I take a look, I see the fuel dump, I land, I refuel, I take a sleep, it’s crazy. But Jesus, Voltaire, it’s not Yunnan Province, okay? It’s not China—and Ricardo, the American war criminal and opium smuggler, is not going to spend the rest of his life hanging from a hen-hook in Peking, okay? Listen, I brought that plane back south again. I know places, I know places I could lose a whole air force, believe me.”
Ricardo became suddenly very vague about the next few months of his life. He had heard of the Flying Dutchman, and he said that was what he became; he flew, hid again, flew, resprayed the Beechcraft, changed the registration once a month, sold the opium in small lots in order not to be conspicuous, a kilo here, fifty there, bought a Spanish passport from an Indian but had no faith in it, kept away from everyone he knew, including Rosie in Bangkok, and even Charlie Marshall. It was also the time, Jerry remembered from his briefing by old Craw, when Ricardo sold Ko’s opium to the Enforcement heroes but got the cold shoulder on his story. On Tiu’s orders, said Ricardo, the Indocharter boys had been quick to post him dead, and changed his flight route southwards to distract attention. Ricardo heard of this and did not object to being dead.
“What did you do about Lizzie?” Jerry asked.
Again Ricardo flared. “Lizzie, Lizzie! You got some fixation about that scrubber, Voltaire, that you throw Lizzie in my face all the time? I never knew a woman so irrelevant. Listen, I give her to Drake Ko, okay? I make her fortune.”
Seizing his whisky glass, he drank from it, still glowering.
She was lobbying for him, Jerry thought. She and Charlie Marshall. Plodding the pavements trying to buy Ricardo’s neck for him.
“You referred boastingly to other lucrative aspects of the case,” Ricardo said in a peremptory resumption of his business-school English. “Kindly advise me what they are, Voltaire.”
Sarratt man had this part off pat. “Number one: Ko was being paid large sums by the Russian Embassy in Vientiane. The money was syphoned through Indocharter and ended up in a slush account in Hong Kong. We’ve got the proof. We’ve got photostats of the bank statements.”
Ricardo pulled a face as if his whisky didn’t taste right, then went on drinking.
“Whether the money was for reviving the opium habit in Red China or for some other service, we don’t yet know,” said Jerry. “But we will. Point two. Do you want to hear it or am I keeping you awake?”
Ricardo had yawned.
“Point two,” Jerry continued. “Ko has a young
er brother in Red China. Used to be called Nelson. Ko pretends he’s dead but he’s a big beef with the Peking administration. Ko’s been trying to get him out for years. Your job was to take in opium and bring out a package. The package was brother Nelson. That’s why Ko was going to love you like his own son if you brought him back. And that’s why he was going to kill you if you didn’t. If that’s not a five-million-dollar touch, what is?”
Nothing much happened to Ricardo as Jerry watched him in the failing light, except that the slumbering animal in him visibly woke. To set down his glass, he leaned forward slowly, but he couldn’t conceal the tautness of his shoulders or the knotting of the muscles of his stomach. To flash a smile of exceptional good will at Jerry, he turned quite languidly, but his eyes had a brightness that was like a signal to attack. So that when he reached out and patted Jerry’s cheek affectionately with his right hand, Jerry was quite ready to fall straight back with it if necessary, on the off chance he would manage to throw Ricardo across the room.
“Five million bucks, Voltaire!” Ricardo exclaimed with steelybright excitement. “Five million! Listen—we got to do something for poor old Charlie Marshall, okay? For love. Charlie’s always broke. Maybe we put him in charge of the football pool once. Wait a minute. I get some more Scotch, we celebrate.” He stood up, his head tilted to one side; he held out his naked arms. “Voltaire,” he said softly. “Voltaire!” Affectionately, he took Jerry by the cheeks and kissed him. “Listen, that’s some research you guys did! That’s some pretty smart editor you work for. You be my business partner. Like you say. Okay? I need an Englishman in my life. I got to be like Lizzie once, marry a schoolmaster. You do that for Ricardo, Voltaire? You hold me down a little?”
“No problem,” said Jerry, smiling back.
“You play with the guns a minute, okay?”
“Sure.”
“I got to tell those girls some little thing.”
“Sure.”
“Personal family thing.”
“I’ll be here.”
From the top of the trap Jerry looked urgently down after him. Mickey, the driver, was dandling the baby on his arm, chucking it under the ear. In a mad world you keep the fiction going, he thought; stick to it till the bitter end and leave the first bite to him. Returning to the table, Jerry took Ricardo’s pencil and his pad of paper and wrote out a non-existent address in Hong Kong where he could be reached at any time. Ricardo had still not returned, but when Jerry stood he saw him coming out of the trees behind the car. He likes contracts, he thought; give him something to sign. He took a fresh sheet of paper. “I, Jerry Westerby, do solemnly swear to share with my friend Captain Tiny Ricardo all proceeds relating to our joint exploitation of his life story,” he wrote, and signed his name.
Ricardo was coming up the steps. Jerry thought of helping himself from the private armoury, but he guessed Ricardo was waiting for him to do just that. While Ricardo poured more whisky, Jerry handed him the two sheets of paper.
“I’ll draft a legal deposition,” he said, looking straight into Ricardo’s burning eyes. “I have an English lawyer in Bangkok whom I trust entirely. I’ll have him check it over and bring it back to you to sign. After that we’ll plan the march route and I’ll talk to Lizzie. Okay?”
“Sure. Listen, it’s dark out there. They got a lot of bad guys in that forest. You stay the night. I talk to the girls. They like you. They say you very strong man. Not so strong as me, but strong.”
Jerry said something about not wasting time. He’d like to make Bangkok by tomorrow, he said. To himself he sounded as lame as a three-legged mule—good enough to get in maybe, but never to get out. But Ricardo seemed content to the point of serenity. Maybe it’s the ambush deal, thought Jerry, something the colonel is arranging.
“Go well, horse-writer. Go well, my friend.”
Ricardo put both hands on the back of Jerry’s neck and let his thumb-prints settle into Jerry’s jaw, then drew Jerry’s head forward for another kiss, and Jerry let it happen. Though his heart thumped and his wet spine felt sore against his shirt, Jerry let it happen.
Outside it was half dark. Ricardo did not see them to the car but watched them indulgently from under the stilts, the girls sitting at his feet, while he waved with both naked arms.
From the car Jerry turned and waved back. The last sun lay dying in the teak trees. My last ever, he thought.
“Don’t start the engine,” he told Mickey quietly. “I want to check the oil.”
Perhaps it’s just me who’s mad. Perhaps I really got myself a deal, he thought.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, Mickey released the catch and Jerry pulled up the bonnet but there was no little plastic, no leavingpresent from his new friend and partner. He pulled up the dipstick and pretended to read it.
“You want oil, horse-writer?” Ricardo yelled down the dust path.
“No, we’re all right. So long!”
“So long.”
He had no torch, but when he crouched and groped under the chassis in the gloom, he again found nothing.
“You lost something, horse-writer?” Ricardo called again, cupping his hands to his mouth.
“Start the engine,” Jerry said and got into the car.
“Lights on, Mister?”
“Yes, Mickey. Lights on.”
“Why he call you horse-writer?”
“Mutual friends.”
If Ricardo has tipped off the C.T.s, thought Jerry, it won’t make any damn difference either way. Mickey put on the lights, and inside the car the American dashboard lit up like a small city.
“Let’s go,” said Jerry.
“Quick-quick?”
“Yes, quick-quick.”
They drove five miles, seven, nine. Jerry was watching them on the indicator, reckoning twenty to the first check-point and forty-five to the second. Mickey had hit seventy and Jerry was in no mood to complain. They were on the crown of the road and the road was straight, and beyond the ambush strips the tall teaks slid past them like orange ghosts.
“Fine man,” Mickey said. “He plenty fine lover. Those girls say he some pretty fine lover.”
“Watch for wires,” Jerry said.
On the right the trees broke and a red dust track disappeared into the cleft.
“He get pretty good time in there,” said Mickey. “Girls, he get kids, he get whisky. He get real good time.”
“Pull in, Mickey. Stop the car. Here in the middle of the road where it’s level. Just do it, Mickey.”
Mickey began laughing.
“Girls get good time, too,” Mickey said. “Girls get candy, little baby get candy, everybody get candy!”
“Stop the damn car!”
At his own leisurely pace, Mickey brought the car to a halt, still giggling about the girls.
“Is that thing accurate?” Jerry asked, his finger pressed to the petrol gauge.
“Accurate?” Mickey echoed, puzzled by the English.
“Petrol. Gas. Full? Or half full? Or three-quarters? Has it been reading right on the journey?”
“Sure. He right.”
“When we arrived at the burnt village, Mickey, you had halffull gas. You still have halffull gas.”
“Sure.”
“You put any in? From a can? You fill car?”
“No.”
“Get out.”
Mickey began protesting, but Jerry leaned across him, opened his door, shoved Mickey straight through it onto the tarmac, and followed him. Seizing Mickey’s arm, he jammed it into his back and frog-marched him at a gallop across the road to the edge of the wide soft shoulder and twenty yards into it, then threw him into the scrub and fell half beside him, half onto him, so that the wind went out of Mickey’s stomach in a single astonished hiccup, and it took him all of half a minute before he was able to give vent to an indignant “Why for?”
But Jerry by that time was pushing his face into the earth to keep it out of the blast.
The old Ford seemed to burn
first and explode afterwards, finally lifting into the air in one last assertion of life, before collapsing dead and flaming on its side. While Mickey gasped in admiration, Jerry looked at his watch. Eighteen minutes since they had left the stilt house. Maybe twenty. Should have happened sooner, he thought. Not surprising Ricardo was keen for us to go. At Sarratt they wouldn’t even have seen it coming; this was an Eastern treat, and Sarratt’s natural soul was with Europe and the good old days of the cold war—Czecho, Berlin, and the old fronts. Jerry wondered which brand of grenade it was. The Vietcong preferred the American type; they loved its double action. All you needed, they said, was a wide throat to the petrol tank. You took out the pin, you put an elastic band over the spring, you slipped the grenade into the petrol tank, and you waited patiently for the petrol to eat its way through the rubber. The result was one of those Western inventions it took the Vietcong to discover. Ricardo must have used fat elastic bands, he decided.
They made the first check-point in four hours, walking on the road. Mickey was extremely happy about the insurance situation, assuming that since Jerry had paid the premium, the money was automatically theirs to squander. Jerry could not deter him from this view. But Mickey was also scared: first of C.T.s, then of ghosts, then of the colonel. So Jerry explained to him that neither the ghosts nor the C.T.s would venture near the road after that little episode. As for the colonel—though Jerry didn’t mention this to Mickey—well, he was a father and a soldier and he had a dam to build. Not for nothing was he building it with Drake Ko’s cement and China Airsea’s transport.
At the check-point they eventually found a truck to take Mickey home. Riding with him a distance, Jerry promised the comic’s support in any insurance haggle, but Mickey in his euphoria was deaf to doubts. Amid much laughter they exchanged addresses and many hearty handshakes; then Jerry dropped off at a roadside café to wait half a day for the bus that would carry him eastwards toward a fresh field of war.
Need Jerry have ever gone to Ricardo in the first place? Would the outcome, for himself, have been different if he had not? Or did Jerry, as Smiley’s defenders to this day insist, by his pass at Ricardo, supply the last crucial heave which shook the tree and caused the coveted fruit to fall?
The Honorable Schoolboy Page 50