MICHELLE RAWLINSON - EN-ROUTE TO VIENTIANE AND ARRIVAL<br/><br/>Despite the uncomfortable seat, thundering racket and the fact that my stomach seemed to one minute zoom up to almost come out my mouth and the next plunge through the helicopter floor to dive far below me I managed to not be airsick. I also managed to digest the latest information the official files contained. I found that focussing on the new material took my mind off the flight.<br/><br/>What became clear, the details of individual sightings aside, was that something big was happening globally. While the ultimatum letter was the most obvious event so far and drew mine and Sir Henry's focus to Laos, other reports made it clear this was a world-wide phenomenon. What was even more interesting was the Soviets and the Chinese were willing to state that their military had had...<em>encounters</em>- that was the word that kept popping into my head. Normally there was no-one more tight-lipped about what their military was doing, unless it was good old Uncle Ho himself, but now the commies were sharing their news and that put these incidents onto a whole new level of importance. For the reds to admit they had a submarine in the Greenland gap meant this was big. Bigger than anything yet. Of course the reports from the communist bloc had not come out through official channels but the fact they had to have an inside source originally was the key thing. Someone high up wanted these reports leaked because... Because of what? They were afraid? They thought they were in too deep facing something unknown?<br/><br/>There weren't many other conclusions to be drawn; the facts of the ultimatum letters that changed text as you held them in your hand told of a technology someone was using well beyond anything NASA had developed for their Apollo program and no-one in the west seriously entertained Moscow or Peking having such know-how. The question on everyone's lips was the obvious one: If we don't have the ability to do this,<em>then who does?</em><br/><br/>UFOs, flying saucers, little green men...<em>Aliens</em>. Extra-terrestrial life. It seemed incomprehensible that the world's governments were discussing the possibility, yet what other options were there? None that I could see.<br/><br/>I pulled out the flimsy that reported the Soviet naval sighting in the Aleutians. "Airships" was the word used. I had visions of huge dirigibles, in particular the Hindenburg crashing at Lakehurst when that word was used, but something told me that people who could change words on a sheet of paper as though it had the properties of a television screen wouldn't fly in hydrogen-filled wallowing whales of the air. "Airship" had to mean something else. I thought about Roswell in which incident the US military had displayed what looked like sheets of cloth or fine plastic, definitely something more from an airship than an aircraft.<br/><br/>I sighed and pushed the papers back into their folders and slid the packet into my bag. Chatter from the pilot that came over my headset indicated we were coming in to land. I braced myself and wondered if my stomach would be joining me or might stay up here a while to enjoy the view.<br/><br/><div align="center"> ~ * * * ~ </div><br/><strong><em>"Yes, this Gervais fellow is booked into the Mhonhut, ah... here."</em></strong>The clerk pressed a fingertip to the large-scale street map of Vientaine on the wall behind his desk.<strong><em>"Not a very nice hotel. Pretty average, in fact. I wouldn't want to stay there."</em></strong><br/><br/><strong>"That makes sense."</strong><br/><br/><strong><em>"Sorry?"</em></strong><br/><br/><strong>"Please send him a note. Hand carried, I'm not going to risk the telephone. Um, is there a public place to meet him near the Foreign Ministry? A bar?"</strong><br/><br/>The consular clerk was still giving me a funny look about my comment regarding his choice of hotel but nodded after a moment.<strong><em>"Sure is. A place called <em>Moulin Rouge</em>, daft name for out here if you ask me."</em></strong><br/><br/><strong>"That's because of the French."</strong><br/><br/><strong><em>"Ah, righty,"</em></strong>he admitted.<br/><br/><strong>"Tell this Gervais chappie that I will be sitting at a pavement table outside the Moulin Rouge at six. Feel free to give him my name and diplomatic status, I doubt there will be any other European women there so we don't need to bother with all the 'red carnation in the button hole and a copy of the <em>Times</em>' shenanigans. If he is as connected as well as I think he is, he'll know I'm here already."</strong><br/><br/><strong><em>"Really?"</em></strong>The clerk looked shocked,<strong><em>"You just got here."</em></strong><br/><br/><strong>"These Frenchmen, you know,"</strong>I winked at him,<strong>"They know their ladies. He'll know I'm here."</strong><br/><br/>I thanked the clerk and went back to my hotel room at the Imperial, the only decent place in the city and where all the western journalists and diplomats stayed. That fact alone made it certain a French secret agent wouldn't be there and in fact an innocuous place like the Mhonhut sounded exactly what he'd choose. Very average. Very invisible. Come and go unseen.<br/><br/>I bathed and changed, discovering that the suitcase the RAAF lieutenant had packed was more than sufficient. It bulged because the woman had stuffed in three of everything, my size and one above and one below. I smiled at Donald Dunstan's efficient ability to work out by eye a woman's measurements. I wasn't sure I was happy to be well away from such a person or the opposite. Everything in the bag was military but there were some low heeled soft shoes which I lacked, my high heels would possibly prove a liability sooner rather than later. There were also some lightweight canvas jungle boots, men's baggy combat fatigues and an equipment belt which was a bit over the top, I thought. Surely I wasn't expected to go out in the jungle? I hung the uniforms up and put everything away and changed into my clean suit, a lightweight summer outfit with a pencil skirt in sober grey. 'Diplomatic grey' we called it, a faceless charcoal colour. I fluffed my hair, applied perfume, slipped on the low heels and ten minutes later was sat at a shady table on the wide pavement outside what proved to be a tolerably good bar, though hardly a reflection of its Parisian namesake. Its main benefit was that it was bustling and plenty noisy which I liked. I ordered a Coca-Cola and was surprised when it arrived complete with ice cubes and a slice of lemon. Things were looking up. I checked my watch; three minutes to six.