The flight attendant came up, smiled and said, 'Would you care for another cocktail, Mr Clare?’
Randolph shook his head. 'No, thanks, no. I think I'll try to get some sleep.’
He reclined his seat and tried to relax, but the steady thundering of the 747's progress across the Pacific kept him awake, apart from the fact that he was afraid of the nightmarish visions that sleep might bring: Marmie and the children running away from him, always running away, through cities and corridors and winding mazes; glimpsed but never caught. And then the sudden strangulation of barbed wire twisted tightly around the neck. Eyes distended, tongue protruding, lacerated fingers clawing at the barbs in a hopeless struggle to breathe. He had seen the fingernail scratches on Marmie's neck in the photographs Inspector Dulac had shown him. Her own fingernail scratches, inflicted as she had helplessly torn at the wire.
He lowered his head to his chest. He could not imagine the pain that Marmie must have suffered. He could only hope that those who died in pain were beatified, that their agony bought them eternal peace. Where and how, he was not sure. By believing in Dr Ambara and by flying to Indonesia, he had denied his own religion, such as it was, and Marmie's religion too. He hoped that Dr Ambara's heaven was the same as Marmie's heaven and that Dr Ambara's god was the same God in whom Marmie had always believed.
They stayed for four hours in Honolulu and ate breakfast as Wednesday morning gradually lightened the eastern horizon. The flight for Manila left at seven-fifteen and they walked to their plane under a sky that was pale and high and streaked with cirrus clouds. Randolph saw the man called Ecker shuffling down the aisle towards his seat, and for a second their eyes made curious and antagonistic contact. As soon as he had settled in his own seat, Randolph beckoned the flight director over and said, 'I hope this isn't the kind of question a fellow passenger shouldn't ask, but do you have any idea of who those four men in combat fatigues might be?’
The flight director smiled and shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Mr Clare. I really don't.’
On a sudden impulse, Randolph reached clumsily into his wallet and dislodged a hundred-dollar bill. He folded it and offered it to the man between two stiffened fingers. 'Do you think that
now
you might be able to remember?’
The flight director stared at the bill impassively. 'I'm sorry, Mr Clare, they're nothing more than names on the passenger roster. I haven't had any special advisories on them. You know, sometimes - between you and me -1 do if there's a recently bailed felon on board, or a woman of particular wealth, or even somebody quite innocent who didn't do anything more than attract the attention of the security guards back at the airport. Some people act very strange when they fly. It's mostly fear.’
Randolph tucked away the bill. 'Okay,’ he said. 'At least you're honest. On another airline, they might have taken the money and spun me ten minutes of hooey. But… let me put it this way… if you
do
happen to catch anything that gives you a clue as to who they are and what they're doing here… well, it's a long way to Manila and I don't have any place to spend this hundred dollars except on this plane. I might as well try to get my money's worth.’
He felt more than a little embarrassed, particularly since the flight director had rebuffed him so politely, but Wanda seemed to be impressed. 'I never thought I'd ever catch you trying to
bribe
somebody,’ she smiled. Then she turned around to see if she could catch a glimpse of the four men in fatigues. 'And anyway, why did you ask him who those men are?’
'I don't know. It's the way they've been looking at me, I guess. I have this peculiar feeling that they've been following us.’
Dr Ambara looked up from his magazine. 'The East always seems more mysterious than the West. You are beginning to see conspiracies where none exist. Those men are not following you. They simply happen to be travelling to Manila on the same flight.’
However, the next time Randolph went to the rest room, the flight director lifted a finger and beckoned to him as he passed the galley. Randolph stepped into the niche and the flight director drew the curtain behind him. One of the stewardesses was perched on a fold-down seat and eating a belated breakfast but she ignored them. The flight director fixed his attention on Randolph's right shoulder and said between almost immobile lips, 'From Manila, they are flying on to Djakarta.’
That's what I'm doing. Are they travelling by Merpati?’
'They don't have any choice. That's the only airline available.’
'Do you know when they booked their flight?’
The flight director picked up his clipboard and checked through the passenger roster. 'Monday morning. The seats were booked through from Memphis.’
Randolph resisted the temptation to peer over the top of the clipboard. 'Does it say who booked the tickets?’ he asked.
'I shouldn't tell you that,’ the flight director said flatly. He kept his eyes on Randolph's shoulder.
'What if I double the previous arrangement?’ Randolph suggested.
The flight director thought for a moment and then turned his clipboard around so that Randolph could read it. There were four names, each booked at the same time.
Ecker,
Richard.
Heacox,
James T.
Louv,
Frank.
Stroup,
Robert Patrick. Their seats had been booked through MidAmerica Travel of Monroe Street, Memphis, and the billing address was the Brooks Cottonseed Corporation.
Without a word Randolph handed the flight director two hundred-dollar bills, noting that the man accepted them with that extraordinary sleight-of-hand at which many who serve the public become skilled.
'They haven't been talking very much,’ the flight director added, turning his clipboard around again. 'The one called Ecker doesn't speak at all. Mute possibly, or deaf-mute. His friends order his drinks and his meals for him. They're not on vacation though, I can tell you that much. They're working, and they're travelling on expenses. I heard one of them complaining that they would have to stay at the Hotel Keborayan in Djakarta. He said the Hotel Keborayan stunk and that they never would have stayed there if he'd had anything to do with it.’
Randolph nodded and then passed the flight director another hundred. The flight director said with undisguised surprise, 'Do they mean
that
much to you?’
Randolph said, 'I'm not sure. It's possible. But let's just say that I like to know who I'm flying with.’
'Well, any time,’ said the flight director. 'How about a drink?’
When Randolph returned to his seat, Wanda was listening to music. He signaled that she should remove her earphones and then he leaned over and said, ‘Those four men… I think I was right. Their tickets were booked by Brooks Cottonseed.’
'You mean that they've been sent to follow us to Indonesia?’
'It seems like it. Maybe Orbus Greene thinks I've discovered a new source of cottonseed oil and wants to keep tabs on it. Maybe he just wants to know what I'm doing. I always did make him nervous.’
Dr Ambara, who had overheard this, said with a frown, 'You would have thought that if they were doing nothing more than keeping an eye on us, they would have sent somebody less conspicuous. They look more like mercenary soldiers than private detectives.’
'Perhaps that's the whole point. Perhaps Orbus
wanted
us to find out who they are. Perhaps he was deliberately trying to intimidate us.’
'Are you intimidated?’ Wanda asked.
'Of course not,’ Randolph told her.
'Well, then,’ put in Dr Ambara, 'if it really was his intention to intimidate you, he has failed. Is it conceivable that he had something else in mind? Something more positive? After all, it could not have been inexpensive to send four men executive-class to Djakarta. It is not the sort of excursion anyone would pay for unless he was expecting to reap some tangible benefits from it.’
'I'm not sure of what you're getting at,’ Randolph said.
'Neither am I,’ Dr Ambara replied. 'But - since we are obviously being kept under close surveillance - I suggest that we conduct ourselves with extreme caution.’
Randolph had been thinking the same thought ever since he had first seen Richard Ecker staring at him so intently. What had Jimmy the Rib told him? There's four or five of them, not always the same guys. The only name I heard is Reece, and he's supposed to be some spaced-out veteran from Cambodia or someplace like that, a frightening man from what I hear tell.’
Was it possible that the man calling himself Ecker was really the man whom Jimmy the Rib had called Reece? There were distinct similarities. Reece was supposed to be a veteran and Ecker certainly dressed like one. Reece was supposed to be employed by the Cottonseed Association and Ecker's tickets had been bought through Brooks. Yet Randolph was reluctant to make the final assumption that would have made his guesswork complete. Reluctant because it was too neat. And reluctant because the implications of it were too frightening to think about. He felt almost paranoid, as if he were beginning to suffer delusions that he was at the centre of a dark and complicated conspiracy. But it seemed to be too much of a coincidence that Ecker-Reece was flying on the same plane on the way to Djakarta with three henchmen in combat fatigues.
Jimmy the Rib had actually suggested that Reece might have been responsible for killing Marmie and the children. The thought that the same man was sitting here now, within thirty feet of him, made Randolph feel tight and cold all over, as if he had been suddenly plunged into icy water. But it made terrible sense of Ecker's presence here if Ecker were really Reece. Ecker-Reece had slaughtered the wife and the children. Now he was after the father.
There was no proof of course. Ecker might have been doing nothing more sinister than flying to Djakarta on one of Orbus's overseas engineering programmes. He might have caught the same plane as a matter of coincidence. But Ecker had been booked on this flight
after
Randolph had made his travel arrangements, and there was no doubt in Randolph's mind that he and his men were showing more than a passing interest in him.
Randolph scribbled a note on one of the back pages of his diary, tore it out and passed it over to Dr Ambara, who read: 'I believe these men may have been sent to kill us. I have no cast-iron evidence but it will probably be safer if we can manage to shake them off our tail. Perhaps we can manage it when we reach Manila?’
Dr Ambara studied the note carefully, then passed it back. Wanda read it, too, and looked at Randolph with alarm.
'I can't understand why anybody at the Cottonseed Association should want to get rid of you so badly,’ she hissed. 'Surely you couldn't have upset Orbus Greene that much, that he should want to kill you?’
'I don't know,’ Randolph replied soberly, tearing the note into confetti and cramming it into the ashtray beside him. 'I don't understand it either. Maybe we've been hurting them more than we've realized. After all, Brooks lost six per cent of the market share last quarter while we gained eight and a half per cent.’
'But to kill you - to kill your family - that's just insane!’
'I agree with you. But ever since that fire out at Raleigh, people have been telling me that Orbus Greene and Waverley Graceworthy and all the rest of the good old boys have been determined to finish me off. I never thought they could be capable of murder… but, well, maybe I've been too naive. Maybe I've failed to realize what a dog-eat-dog world it is out there.’
Wanda touched his arm. 'I'm frightened,’ she said.
Randolph took her hand. 'Don't you worry. We know a lot more about what's going on than the Cottonseed Association seems to think we do. If they had known what Jimmy the Rib told me… well, they wouldn't have sent Ecker or Reece or whatever his name is to follow us.’
'Randolph,’ Wanda said, 'you ought to tell the police.’
Tell the police what? That the highly respected chairman of the Memphis Cottonseed Association has sent a team of veteran killers to rub me out all over a couple of cottonseed-processing contracts?’
'You're friends with Chief Moyne. Perhaps you could call him.’
'Maybe. But I'm going to need something a little more substantial before I start bothering Chief Moyne.’
'He's a friend of yours.’
'He's also a friend of Orbus Greene's.’
For the remainder of the flight to Manila, they said little. But they kept their eyes on the man called Ecker and his companions, and there was no doubt that whenever Ecker passed Randolph in the aisle or at the galley, he stared at him as coldly as a striking snake. In a strange way, Randolph found it fascinating that this man might have been paid to kill him, fascinating and frightening. But Dr Ambara had assured him that once they reached Manila, they would be able to lose their entourage for sure. They would have to rearrange their flight schedule to Djakarta, but that would present no difficulties. Oddly, Dr Ambara seemed to find the idea of being pursued from Memphis to Djakarta quite unsurprising. Perhaps it was his philosophical Oriental mind. But Randolph found it unreal, and his sense of unreality was heightened by the twelve-hour time difference between Manila and Memphis as well as by the change in climate and culture.