Honourable Schoolboy (62 page)

‘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, 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 siphoned 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 younger brother in Red China. Used to be called Nelson. Ko pretends he’s dead, but he’s now 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 back 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 out. 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 goodwill at Jerry, he turned quite languidly, but his eyes had a brightness that was like a signal to attack; so that when he reached forward 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 steely-bright 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 desk, 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 thumbpoints 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 leaving present 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 dustpath.

‘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 CTs, 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 checkpoint 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, PX. 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!’

Taking his own good time, 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 half-full gas. You still have half-full 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 on to the tarmac and followed him. Seizing Mickey’s arm, he jammed it into his back and frogmarched him at a gallop, straight 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 on to 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 back 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 checkpoint 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 CTs, then of ghosts, then of the colonel. So Jerry explained to him that neither the ghosts nor the CTs 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 checkpoint, 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 eastward 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? For the Smiley Supporters’ Club there is no question: the visit to Ricardo was the final straw and Ko’s back broke under it. Without it, he might have gone on dithering until the open season started, by which time Ko himself, and the intelligence on him, would be up for grabs. End of argument. And on the face of it, the facts demonstrate a wonderful causality. For this is what happened. A mere six hours after Jerry and his driver Mickey had picked themselves out of the dust of that roadside in north-east Thailand, the whole of the Circus fifth floor exploded into a blaze of ecstatic jubilation which would have out-shone the pyre of Mickey’s borrowed Ford car any night. In the rumpus room, where Smiley announced the news, Doc di Salis actually danced a stiff little jig, and Connie would unquestionably have joined him if her arthritis had not held her to that wretched chair. Trot howled, Guillam and Molly embraced, and only Smiley, amid so much revelry, preserved his usual slightly startled air, though Molly swore she saw him redden as he blinked around the company.

He had just had word, he said. A flash communication from the Cousins. At seven this morning, Hong Kong time, Tiu had telephoned Ko at Star Heights, where he had been spending the night relaxing with Lizzie Worth. Lizzie herself took the call in the first instance, but Ko came in on the extension and sharply ordered Lizzie to ring off, which she did. Tiu had proposed breakfast in town at once: ‘At George’s place,’ said Tiu, to the great entertainment of the transcribers. Three hours later, Tiu was on the phone to his travel agent making hasty plans for a business trip to Mainland China. His first stop would be Canton, where China Airsea kept a representative, but his ultimate destination was Shanghai.

So how did Ricardo get through to Tiu so fast without the telephone? The most likely theory is the colonel’s police link to Bangkok. And from Bangkok? Heaven knows. Trade telex, the exchange-rate network, anything is possible. The Chinese have their own ways of doing these things.

On the other hand, it may just be that Ko’s patience chose this moment to snap of its own accord - and that the breakfast ‘at George’s place’ was about something entirely different. Either way, it was the breakthrough they had all been dreaming of, the triumphant vindication of Smiley’s footwork. By lunchtime, Lacon had called in person to offer his congratulations and by early evening Saul Enderby had made a gesture nobody from the wrong side of Trafalgar Square had ever made before. He had sent round a crate of champagne from Berry Brothers and Rudd, a vintage Krug, a real beauty. Attached to it was a note to George saying ‘to the first day of summer’. And indeed, though late April, it seemed to be just that. Through the thick net curtains of the lower floors, the plane trees were already in leaf. Higher up, a cluster of hyacinths had blossomed in Connie’s window box. ‘Red,’ she said, as she drank Saul Enderby’s health. ‘Karla’s favourite colour, bless him.’