Gavin Lyall - Shooting Script

The General said to Whitmore: 'Naturally I must apologise for die inconvenience this causes you, Señor. But you understand it is also for your safety… Tickets for the Pan American flight to San Juan tonight will await you at the airport.'

'Tonight?' Whitmore said.

'Tonight, ' the General said firmly. He looked around. 'I much regret, Señorita, Señores, but…' he turned to go.

Miranda waited just long enough to say,'Rebelde!'

I said to Ned: 'Only one thing I'm sorry about – that it wasn't Capitán Miranda in the Vamp. Except diat he wouldn't have counted a whole kill, being only half a man.'

It wasn't the season's newest, snappiest insult. But for a man like Miranda it didn't have to be. He took a quick dancing step and led with his right.

I went in under the punch and hit him once just at the bottom of the ribs. Hard. Maybe not hard enough to pay for one confiscated aeroplane, but at least I was trying.

The two bodyguards moved quickly back, groping under their coats. The General snapped something, and they froze. He looked down at Miranda, sitting on the floor and trying to get his head up off his knees. The General said something else and the bodyguards moved warily to pick him up.

Whitmore drawled: 'I'll give you an eye-witness statement about that, too, General.'

'Tonight, 'Boscosaid quietly. 'For your own safety, Señor.'He led the way out.

I looked around for my beer. Ned was still with us, watching me, completely expressionless. Luiz was still playing with the dice; Whitmore and J.B. were frowning ateach other's feet as they chewed over the changed programme.

I found my glass, emptied it, and said: 'I seem to have bitched up the trip pretty thoroughly.'

Whitmore looked up, then shook his head. 'No sweat, fella. If they're going to pick on us, I'd rather it happened now than when we got the full unit in. And I still like the way you drop your shoulder in the punch.' He pulled out his cigarettes. 'So what's a check four gonna cost you, fella?'

'Three thousand pounds. Eight thousand dollars. No – more: they won't have engineers qualified on Doves down here, so I'd have to fly them in and put them up for a couple of weeks.' Then I shook my head. 'It doesn't make any odds. They're going to sit on the plane just as long as they want, no matter what I do or don't do.'

Ned gave one very small nod.

Whitmore grunted. 'Well, looks like you got trouble, fella. Maybe we can figure something out. I'm going to get some chow: we can still take a ride around die sights this afternoon, right? What time's that plane go?'

'About eleven,' Ned said.

Whitmore ignored him. 'Howsabout you, fella?'

'I,' I said firmly, 'am going to do a little drinking.'

He nodded appreciatively. 'Just stick around the hotel. We'll see you make the flight.' Finally he turned to Ned. 'Thanks for everything, Coronel.'

Ned just looked at him, stolid, expressionless. Whitmore and J.B. walked away.

Luiz came away from the table still idly shaking the dice in his hands; the croupier chased after him. Luiz said something fast and quiet in Spanish that stopped him like a slap in the face.

Then there were just Ned and me.

After a while he said: 'You want to get started on that drinking?'

'Yes; step aside. You're blocking the route to the bar.'

He stayed where he was. 'I ain't going to apologise to you, Keith. Frankly, I'd've liked to see you banged in jail a few months. But I didn't expect him to pinch your plane.'

'Don't cry too hard. You'll wet your pistol.'

'You don't have to believe me.'

'I don't even have to waste time deciding whether I believe you or not. Now stand aside.'

'I didn't expect him to ground you,' he said doggedly.

I just stared. But perhaps, in a way, I did believe him. Being in jail is one thing: you can get out of jail. Losing your plane is having the whole sky pulled from under your feet.

'All right,' I said. 'So I believe you. Now will you-?'

Til buy you the first bottle. I owe you that for slugging Miranda. I been wanting to do that myself a long time.'

'So why didn't you?'

Tm a colonel – remember? His superior officer. I ain't used to being a superior. You can't slug hardly anybody.'

We seemed to be walking out together. So – why not? Unless I was going to practise high dives into a whisky bottle in my own room, Ned was still better company than anybody I'd meet at the bar.

We got into a lift. On the way up, he said: 'You'll get the insurance on your plane, won't you?'

I looked at him. 'D'you want to bet? Confiscation'll come under "riots, strikes, and civil disturbances" and on the standard policy you aren't insured against them. Anyway, I'd have to prove confiscation – and I can't see you helping me on that. I'm just grounded for safety reasons, and an insurance company isn't going to pay onthat. Not after I swore to keep the plane up to standard.'

He frowned. 'Yeh. You really have got trouble.'

We got out at the top floor and walked down a normal hotel corridor and round a corner. I was just about to ask where the hell we were going, when he stopped outside an unnumbered door and started turning keys in a couple of locks that were a lot more serious than any an hotel normally uses.

It was a wide, cool room looking – surprisingly – inland. At first sight it seemed to be just another millionaire suite: lined with low expensive-looking Scandinavian cupboards and cabinets, thick green wall-to-wall carpeting, modern copper lampshades, ice-cold air-conditioning. Then you saw the touches that were Ned's: a heavy old green baize card tablewith a ring of tall leather chairs, the three telephones, the easel with a map board, the Braun T1000VHP receiver on the window-sill.

That was why the room faced inland, of course: most of the air messages would be coming from inland.

Ned walked over to the receiver, switched it on, and tuned it delicately. All he got was a faint crackle and hum. He picked up a red telephone, got an immediate answer, and said:'Coronel Rafter at the Americana. I'll be here most the day.'

He put the phone down and waved at a cabinet. 'Start the round. I'll have a beer.'

The cabinet turned out to be a wood-covered refrigerator filled to withstand a long siege if you didn't happen to care about food. There were bottles of everything I could think of including several of Australian Swan beer. How Ned managed to get that hauled in across 9,000 miles… but perhaps being a superior officer has its compensations.

I poured his beer and gave myself a Scotch stiff enough to stand up without the glass. When I turned round Ned had dumped his gun and harness on the table and stripped off his flying suit, leaving him in just a pair of striped underpants. He took the beer, said 'Cheers,' and went out through the side door. I heard a shower start.

I took a long gulp of whisky just to set the tone for the afternoon, and wandered over to the receiver. It was a neat square job, a little smaller than a portable typewriter stood on end, well styled without being fussy: you could read the wavelength exactly. I read it.

Then I looked at the telephones: red, green, white. I wondered what the green one was for, then wondered about picking up the red one and telling the squadron to scramble and dive itself into the sea. In the end I just took another mouthful of whisky and walked over and picked up Ned's revolver.

It was a Smith amp; Wesson Magnum.357. A squat, heavy gun as used by the Chicago police because it's supposed to drill clear through a car engine from end to end. Also as carried by most pilots in Korea in case we met the whole Chinese Army standing end to end. By putting both hands on the gripand holding very tight, you might actually have hit the Chinese Army. About hitting a car engine you'd better ask the Chicago police.