The Tale of the Lazy Dog

by Alan Williams

  ‘Everything is prepared.’

  Pol looked down at his shotgun, and on an impulse cracked it open, inspecting both breaches, then looked up at the two men with his impish smile. ‘One cannot be too careful in this game.’

  The two did not smile back; for at that moment the radio came on with Murray’s voice speaking clear French: ‘Charles! Tu m’entends? — tu m’entends!’

  The three scrambled to their feet, Pol reaching the radio in two pigeon struts. ‘Je t’entends bien, mon chou!’

  ‘Tout va bien?’

  ‘Tout va bien!’

  ‘Get ready then,’ Murray: ‘We’re coming in — three minutes away.’

  Pol snapped off the radio, smiling through his sweat, and waddled out into the hot night, full of the shriek of birds and the black smell of the reservoir. The two pilots, carrying flashlights, had run ahead and were lighting the string of acetylene lamps along both edges of the dam wall. Pol waited by the yellow earth-moving machine, with its low slung toothed scuttle, which was drawn up in front of a bulldozer and ten-ton tip-truck — all three vehicles at the head of the steel-mesh road leading on to the dam, their ignition wires crossed, ready for starting.

  There was no moon and a smell of rain in the air. Pol understood enough of flying to know that what Ryderbeit was about to do required enormous skill and a fair measure of luck, even in a plane as manoeuvrable as a Caribou. He was not sure that he had entirely liked Ryderbeit — his politics had seemed dubious to say the least — but he now experienced a solemn sense of affection, even affinity with the man up there somewhere in the dark grey dawn, feeling his way down towards this narrow curving strip of light in the heart of the jungle, risking his life for an illusory fortune.

  Pol was not a cynic; and in this moment he was conscious of the dead hand of guilt, as he stood watching the two pilots coming back at a run between the two rows of harsh acetylene flares. He thought of the other man up there — the Irishman, Wilde, who’d picked that ridiculous fight with him in Bangkok, and then been so willing to help save his life. He’d liked Murray Wilde. There was something vulnerable and compassionate about him — unlike that mad Rhodesian who’d do anything for the promise of money. And then there was the girl — and a French girl too. He supposed she had been vital — the whole plan had finally depended on her — yet Pol was unhappy about her. His own wife had been shot by the Germans in Nancy in 1942. Even for money this was no game for a girl.

  They saw the plane a moment later. It came in low over the far hills, throttles cut, making a smooth purring sound above the jungle, its landing beacons blazing on as it made a slow turn out to the left, speed dropping still further, disappearing for a moment over the trees behind them — then wheeling back in an amazingly tight circle, all flaps down, the undercarriage sweeping past twenty feet above their heads — hands over their ears, feeling the draught of the wings, port engine cutting to a whirring splutter as the slender high-tailed craft, silhouetted hard against its own lights, drifted down over the curving flarepath, forward-beacons bouncing as it made the touch-down, both props roaring into reverse and slowing it to a halt in less than half the distance across the dam.

  The two pilots nodded gravely; but there was no time to lose in admiration of Ryderbeit’s flying skill. They turned to the heavy vehicles behind them, with Pol following the tall man up into the tip-truck which was parked with its back facing the dam. The short snub-nosed pilot had already started up the huge earth-moving machine with a shattering roar through the stillness of the morning. A moment later its caterpillar tracks were crawling out along the dam wall towards the Caribou. The truck, with Pol and the tall pilot, followed a moment later. Between the lane of flares they could just make out the plane’s tail-ramp being lowered on to the muddy track.

  Murray was the first to meet them, coming round the side of the earth-moving machine with his carbine slung across his waist, standing in front of the track as it drew to a halt. Pol clambered out with a tired smile. ‘Félicitations,’ he called.

  ‘Salut!’ cried Murray, and they embraced. The tall pilot had already got out and was hurrying back with his companion, extinguishing the flares. ‘It’s all there,’ said Murray. ‘The whole damned lot! Don’t you want to look?’

  Pol forced another smile. ‘I’ll believe you. I don’t like looking at too much money so early in the morning — it makes me nervous.’

  Ryderbeit had switched off all the aircraft’s lights and they stood under the headlamps of the two heavy vehicles. Ryderbeit now appeared at the top of the tail-ramp with his M16 in one hand, waving at Pol with the other and shouting, ‘Where are the bloody pilots?’

  ‘Putting out the flares,’ said Murray. Ryderbeit nodded and skipped down. ‘Salut Monsieur Charlie!’ he cried with his abominable accent: ‘Not a bad landing, hein?’

  ‘Magnificent,’ said Pol.

  Jackie and No-Entry came round and joined them, and Murray introduced Jackie with a slightly stilted formality. Pol bowed, unconsciously touching his kiss curl and stepping back on his tiny feet with an absurd modesty. ‘Enchanté, madame! Perhaps you would prefer to wait inside the hut until we are finished? Only —’ he paused — ‘there is a dead man inside.’

  She shrugged. ‘There are also two dead men in the plane, monsieur.’

  Pol turned with his hand held out to No-Entry. ‘Enchanté, monsieur.’ The Negro merely nodded. ‘Perhaps you would like a drink?’ Pol added. ‘My pilots will do all the unpacking.’

  ‘I’d like to meet these pilots,’ Ryderbeit broke in. ‘But Holy Moses, I’d like a drink too!’

  Pol chuckled and took his arm, beginning to steer him back towards the hut. ‘The pilots are both new to Air U.S.A., mon cher Sammy. Their names are Ribinovitz and Taylor. Taylor is the short one,’ he added, nodding at the two men coming back down the darkened dam. ‘He doesn’t talk a lot.’

  ‘How much are we paying them?’

  ‘One hundred thousand dollars each — what we agreed.’

  Ryderbeit sneered: ‘Two bloody lucky new boys! And the kickers?’

  ‘They’re down at the airport.’

  Ryderbeit stopped and looked at his watch. ‘Light’s coming up. Sorry, Charlie, the drink’ll have to wait.’

  ‘You don’t want any?’ Pol said, frowning.

  ‘I’d like to help deliver my babies first — then I’ll drink all the booze in Asia!’

  ‘I’ll stay and watch too,’ said Murray.

  ‘Me too,’ said Jones softly.

  Pol stood for a moment looking at all three of them; then shrugged and took Jackie’s arm, waddling back with her through the half-light to the hut at the end of the dam.

  ‘He seems in a big hurry to give us a drink,’ Jones murmured.

  ‘He’s half-drunk already,’ said Ryderbeit, turning as the pilots came up to them.

  ‘Hi!’ the tall one called. ‘That was a great landing you just made there, Mister Ryderbeit! I’m Jo Ribinovitz. This is Chuck Taylor.’

  They all shook hands. ‘Mind if I see your I.D.s?’ said Ryderbeit.

  ‘Sure thing!’

  Ryderbeit glanced at the familiar blue Air U.S.A. cards, each bearing a photograph with a just plausible likeness to its owner. He nodded and handed them back. ‘Just that I’ve grown a little suspicious in life, Jo. So you’re both new to this game?’

  ‘We’re new to nothing,’ Ribinovitz laughed. ‘We’re old hands.’

  ‘Where were your last jobs?’

  ‘Flying oil surveys over Alaska — goddam it! We quit a month before BP hit. Just our luck.’

  ‘Well your luck’s in now, Ribinovitz baby! So let’s get on with movin’ the baggage.’ Ryderbeit was still holding his M16 as he leapt up the tailboard, signalling to the thick-set Taylor who had already climbed back into the cabin of the caterpillar truck, with its digging scuttle wrenched up so that the steel teeth came just level with the top of the ramp.

  Taylor manoeuvred the machine slowly but with skill. Murr
ay guessed that he had once worked with a construction company — or that he must have been putting in some pretty stiff practice recently. Then he looked up at the man’s face, stolidly watching Ryderbeit’s signals from under those huge curling eyebrows — and there was something oddly, uncomfortably familiar about those flat features with the loose mouth and little button nose. They began to nag at him, like the memory of that crooked-faced boy at the Continental Palace giving the wrong directions to the cyclo-pousse driver — Jackie’s mysterious phone call on the same day — the rocket attack and the Red Alert — even Pol, the usually jolly twinkling Pol who’d even seemed so curiously subdued, almost sad when they’d just met. And now that blunt slack-mouthed face. Where the hell had he seen it before? — or one very like it? Was it all part of a pattern? They had seized the plane, taken off and escaped, dropped their paper-chase far to the south, and were now landed safely on the dam. Yet something, indefinably, was wrong.

  He heard Ryderbeit shouting, ‘C’mon soldier, put a shoulder to it!’

  He joined Ryderbeit, Ribinovitz and Jones at the top of the ramp, and they moved back behind the piles of money, lifting the top plywood raft and shifting it inch by inch towards the open vent. When it was just over halfway, it toppled up like a seesaw and the two-foot-square packages, with their wiring now cut, trundled down into the earth-moving scuttle below. By the time they had unloaded half the first pile the scuttle was full, and Taylor signalled them to halt.

  They were dripping with sweat as they stood at the top of the ramp, watching the scuttle slide back, hydraulic pistons hissing as the whole machine ground round on its axis, swinging the great load of dollars out over the dark pit of the reservoir and back again, the scuttle-arm lifting and opening, dropping the load of black packages into the ten-ton truck.

  The whole operation took just three minutes. The light was coming up fast now, the reservoir covered in mist like steam off a saucepan, the jungle above rising in cobwebs of cloud.

  The scuttle was coming round again, as they put their weight against the next stack of dollars, heaving the plywood raft over the edge, standing back and watching once more. Another three minutes — at about a million dollars a second.

  Ryderbeit sighed. ‘Beautiful work, eh?’

  ‘The best I ever did,’ said Jones.

  Ryderbeit looked at the tall slant-eyed Ribinovitz. ‘Where are you from, Jo?’ he asked suddenly.

  The man smiled. ‘Brooklyn.’

  ‘A good Polish Jew, eh?’

  The man stared at him, poker-faced. ‘Yes, I’m a Polish Jew.’

  ‘I’m a White African Jew,’ said Ryderbeit. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ They shook hands for a second time. ‘What sort o’ plane are we flying?’

  ‘C 46. All cleared for take-off and weather.’

  Ryderbeit nodded. ‘You know where we’re landing?’

  ‘Small place just outside the Burmese border. It’s as secure as anywhere. We’ll hole up there for a couple of days, then arrangements’ll be made to move to a secret rendezvous. Only Pol knows the exact plans.’

  The skuttle was swinging back again and they started on the next load. For most of the time they worked in silence, watching the sky grow light and grey and empty. Pol appeared only once, moving none too steadily as he called up to them, ‘The Cambodians have ordered an air search of Tonle Sap lake! They’ve found the dead American.’

  My God, thought Murray, they’re working fast. And in less than four hours. They must have an agent down there on the fishing-beds. Which meant the Cambodians were getting greedy too. He wondered what the international rules were in a game like this. Findings keepings? ‘Where did you hear it from?’ he called back.

  ‘Phnom Penh. You forget, my dear Murray, that I speak Cambodian.’

  ‘Anything out of Wattay?’

  ‘Only that all air reconnaissance have been alerted. You’re nearly finished?’

  ‘We’re nearly finished,’ Ryderbeit snarled, heaving the last sledge of money into the scuttle. ‘And a lot of bloody help you’ve been!’ he muttered in English. ‘Gettin’ soused with Mrs Conquest, I s’pose?’

  The last packages rolled out of the Caribou’s tail. Ribinovitz jumped down and ran over to the tip-truck. The yellow scuttle swivelled round for the last time and dropped its load into the back. Ribinovitz started the engine and climbed aboard, driving forward this time, fast down the dam wall to the shelter of the high trees beyond Donovan’s hut. Taylor followed more slowly in the earth-moving machine.

  Murray, Ryderbeit and No-Entry did not wait to watch. They had turned back into the Caribou. All loose objects not already dumped in Tonle Sap were to be secured; tail-vent up, front and rear doors closed. Ryderbeit was the last to leave, having turned the undercarriage at a hard right-wing angle, all brakes off.

  The bulldozer was now grinding along the wall towards them — pug-faced Taylor again at the wheel. Ryderbeit looked grave, almost glum. He had a love of aircraft as other men do of certain animals. He did not like to see a good plane destroyed. Taylor brought the bulldozer up very gently until its broad mud-polished shear was jammed up against the raised tail-door, pausing for a moment while he changed gears, the bulldozer shifting on its massive caterpillars, heaving now against the body of the plane, tilting it, then shaking it forward with its undercarriage churning mud, sliding it sideways towards the edge. The water level had risen perhaps thirty feet since Murray had last seen it, but it was still a long way down. Another bump and the right-hand wheel was within a foot of the drop. Essential that it should go down intact — nothing torn off, nothing that could float up and betray them.

  The bulldozer drew back a couple of feet, grunted with a belch of smoke, then rammed the tail head-on, driving both wheels over the edge, following through as the belly of the plane crunched down on the slimy edge-lifting it up like a broken toy, one wing heaving itself into the air with a splintering crack of alloy, holding still for perhaps two seconds. Then the huge pyramid tail-fin with the Treasury markings swung up; there was another slow crunch of metal, the whole machine wobbled on the edge and suddenly cartwheeled down the wall, hitting the surface with a long splash. They could just see its roof rocking in the darkness below, settling very slowly, its nose the last to go — a blunt black-painted nose bobbing up like everyone’s favourite dog — then sinking back under the deep lapping water, into silence.

  ‘How long till the oil comes up?’ asked Murray.

  ‘With nothin’ broken,’ said Ryderbeit, ‘it might be a day — perhaps two or three. There’s always a little, but nothin’ to see from the sky.’ He glanced up at the grey ceiling of sky, then back at Taylor, who was already reversing the bulldozer back down the dam. ‘He knows his job, that boy. You have to hand it to old Pol — he can sure pick ’em!’ (Sure, thought Murray: perhaps too well.) ‘I just hope the bastards can fly,’ Ryderbeit added. ‘But whatever else you may say o’ the outfit, Air U.S.A. doesn’t hire duds.’

  Murray made no comment as they walked back down the now deserted dam to the hut. Jackie came out to meet them, standing stiffly with cheeks flushed, eyes turning slowly towards Murray. ‘Did it go all right?’

  ‘Fine. How’s Pol?’

  Pol came out beaming, the second bottle of Johnny Walker half empty in his hand. ‘Have a drink, my dear Murray!’

  ‘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 sack
s 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.