The Wrecking Crew (Janac's Games)

by Mark Chisnell

  He peeled the headset off and dropped it in the daypack. He glanced up at her face — so serene, so beautiful. He rubbed his right hand slowly against his cheek. What he had to tell her would shatter that peace. She didn’t deserve that. It was no reward for her patience and kindness. Perhaps she wouldn’t do it. The Bullens were a last resort, but they were really a little too old for the kind of journey he had in mind. Jasmine was his best chance.

  He glanced sideways. They were coming up to Marina Park. Clifford Quay was around the next corner, in the bay. He would have to be quick. Despite being prepared, he had been lucky to hear the news now. He knew he was under surveillance, and was certain Dubre was responsible, given the suspicions he had voiced over the phone. But there were only ten people on the ferry — unsurprising on a day that had constantly threatened rain. They were all families, and Hamnet was sure his police tail had pulled back, fearing identification in such company. But the cops would be waiting for him, if not on Clifford Quay, then at home. And there was every chance they would have instructions to pick him up. At best that would waste time, at worst it would scupper his plan before he had even started on it. He had to get off the boat unseen, before it docked. He tightened his grip on the pack. It held everything he needed. Would it survive a swim?

  Hamnet shook Jasmine’s arm gently. She opened her eyes and looked straight into his. She knew immediately. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

  Hamnet casually glanced up and down the boat. Everyone was in the bow taking photographs of the city. He reached for Ben’s buggy with one hand, the pack in the other.

  ‘Come with me.’

  He led her to the stern, pushing Ben in front. He moved to starboard — the offshore side — behind the toilets, out of sight of the bow. He sat, and turning to Jasmine indicated that she should do the same. No one paid them any attention.

  ‘We don’t have a lot of time,’ he said. ‘I desperately need your help.’

  Something flickered across her face — almost relief. ‘This is something to do with the radio?’ She glanced at the bag. ‘What did you hear?’

  Hamnet hesitated. ‘I can’t say yet. It’s better that I don’t tell you what’s happening, or where I’m going. Will you help me? Will you help Ben?’

  ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘Take Ben to England. Take him home, to my mother.’

  Her blue eyes widened. She bit her lower lip. ‘To England?’

  Hamnet nodded, leaning forward. ‘Jasmine, I’m really sorry but we don’t have time for questions, barely for thinking. Will you do it? Please?’

  She didn’t hesitate, but nodded hard, her dark hair falling across her face. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You’ve got your passport? I have everything else you need.’

  ‘I always have it with me, after you told me I should.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want you to go to the airport here and wait for a flight. I want you to take a taxi from the quay, straight across the causeway. Don’t go home, don’t stop, don’t do anything other than drive direct to Malaysia. The police might want to stop you, but even if they’re following, you’ll be across the border before they can react. Hopefully they’ll be too busy looking for me, anyway, to worry too much about you. Once you get to Johor Bahru, get on a bus or train or another taxi — whatever you can find — and get to Kuala Lumpur. Once you get there, fly to Britain on the first available flight. This is Ben’s passport and enough cash for the tickets.’ He discreetly pulled a manila envelope out of the bag. ‘Once you’re both there, send me an email message to let me know. Give me a return address so I can reply. Then you can also call the Bullens and tell them where you are. They might be worried.’ He held out the envelope. ‘Everything you need is in there — addresses and money.’

  Jasmine took the envelope. ‘You want me to do all this without any explanation of why?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a lot better that you don’t know until you get to England. I’ll send a separate message to my mother, explaining everything. Once you get there, you’ll know as much as I do. And hopefully, by then this will all be over.’ He hesitated, looked at the envelope in her hands. ‘There’s enough money in there to get you home to the States, from England.’

  Jasmine dropped her gaze. ‘Who said I wanted to go home?’ she replied, mouth down-turned.

  Hamnet’s brow knitted. ‘You were going to Australia, weren’t you? It might get you there, if you can find a cheap enough flight. If not, my mother will help. I’ll make sure she knows.’

  ‘You’ll come to England? When this is over?’ Jasmine looked up.

  ‘As soon as I can. I’m finished out here. Just this one piece of business to deal with.’

  She nodded, tilting her head, searching for his eyes. ‘I’ll wait, in England. I’ll wait for you, and help your mother with Ben. He should have someone familiar around.’

  Hamnet looked up, too, but couldn’t hold her gaze. He glanced away, at the shoreline. The corner of the headland before Marina Bay was closing fast.

  ‘That plastic carrier bag we brought lunch in — do you still have it?’ he asked.

  Jasmine looked confused for a moment, then dug into a pouch on Ben’s buggy. She pulled out half a baguette and handed over the bag. Hamnet dropped the daypack in it, tied the handles together then stood and grabbed the life ring hanging on the rail nearby. He strapped the pack to it as best he could. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

  ‘I’m getting off at this corner of the park. There’s a good chance the police will be waiting for me at the pier. If anyone stops you or asks you a question, tell them I met some friends on the island. That I’m staying for the last boat, that you brought Ben back for his dinner and bed. Then get in a cab and don’t stop for anyone until you’re in England.’

  He glanced forward, round the corner of the toilet block. Passengers and crew alike were still intent on the approach to the bay; no one was looking aft. Nor was there anyone on the Marina Park shoreline. It was the break he needed. He stepped over the rail, the life ring tucked under one arm. Jasmine stood quickly, suddenly understanding, realising that this was it. He was leaving, she was on her own with Ben.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Shhh.’ Hamnet had his finger to his mouth, and now their eyes met. He leant against the rail and kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm.

  ‘I will see you again?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. Just make sure you’ve finished that picture of Ben by then.’ His voice started to crack.

  ‘Promise me? We need you.’ She turned and picked up Ben.

  ‘Yes.’ He could manage only the one word, feeling his knees, his resolve, weaken. He ran his hand gently across Ben’s forehead — the touch, her expression, burning itself into his memory. He knew he would never forget that face, that look, as long as he lived. But nor could he forget what had already happened, was happening. Before he could go forward, he had to go back, finish this. He quickly lowered himself off the rail until his feet were trailing in the wash. Then he let go.

  Hamnet was kicking himself back up as soon as he hit the water. He lost touch with the life ring for a moment, but surfaced beside it. It was still the right way up. He looked over and caught sight of the ferry as it rounded the corner away from him, into the bay. He ducked behind the ring and started to paddle gently for the shore. No one emerged from the tree line before he was able to haul himself quickly onto the rocks and then up into cover. He jogged deep into the thick of the landscaped park. Then he stood still and listened. The distant hum of traffic, a low rumble of thunder from the long-promised storm. Otherwise it was quiet. He knelt and fumbled in the plastic bag. The backpack was damp round the top, but no water had penetrated inside. All his precious equipment was dry.

  Hamnet stripped to his boxer shorts and hung his clothes on branches. Then the storm hit and it poured with rain — a windless, vertical downpour with a fierce sound-and-light show. At least it rinsed the salt out. The sky cleared a
s the thunderstorm departed, and with a couple of hours’ daylight left, the sun still had some power to dry.

  Once the rain had stopped, he was able to get on with the next task. He needed to find a ship. It didn’t matter what it was carrying, it simply had to travel the same route as his last target — up past the northern tip of the Philippines. That much he knew he could ascertain from the published schedules of the shipping lines, which were accessible on the Internet. With the laptop hooked up to the mobile phone, he made a search query on each of the companies operating out of Singapore. From there it took him ten minutes to find what he was looking for — a Hanking ship that was leaving early Monday and heading for Osaka. He sent Janac the standard message about the target, making up the cargo details. The benign weather in the South China Sea had to hold for just a few more days — one more thing to worry about as he lay sleeplessly in the rough nest he fashioned for himself in the scrub.

  At first light, he dressed in his slightly damp clothes and walked to the Marina Bay MRT station. He took the train one stop, to Raffles Place. From there he walked quickly south to the Telok Ayer food centre. The dazzling skyscrapers loomed threateningly over the untidy square of stalls. He buried himself deep under the red-tiled roof to eat a furtive breakfast and drink a reviving coffee. The ceiling fans beat away the minutes, drawing the occasional whiff of rotting food up from the gutters. As the heat and humidity built around him, so did the bustle of people, and by eleven o’clock it was easy to lose himself in the crowd. He was grateful Singapore was a city that never stopped shopping.

  He walked up through the steaming streets, posting the letter to his mother at the first opportunity. Then he bought a sturdy holdall. In a men’s clothes shop he found a dark suit, a white shirt and a formal collar. The next stage was harder. At the Funan IT Mall, it took him a couple of hours to find the phone he was looking for — one that could use the new system of low-earth-orbit satellites. It would check first for access on a terrestrial mobile network, and then switch to the satellites if it couldn’t find a standard station. He also bought the cables and PC card he needed to connect it to the laptop, along with a couple of hundred dollars’ credit on calls. He paid with cash. The shop assistant helped him set up the system and check he had Internet access. It was the middle of the afternoon before he walked back out into the mall, satisfied at last.

  The next item was both easier and cheaper to acquire — a hand-held GPS unit. It took him three shops and ten minutes to track down, and a little under two hundred dollars to buy. But now the loan he had secured against Anna’s promised life insurance money was almost gone. There was just enough for some food.

  Out of the cool of the mall and back on the hot streets, he found a supermarket, where he stocked up on dry biscuits, a few tins of fruit, some Granola bars and bottled water. Concerned at the amount he was now carrying, but unable to do much about it, he took the MRT to Tanjong Pagar. Then he walked down Maxwell Road to Shenton Way, which he followed southwest. By now his calves were cramped and his feet sore, he was caked in sweat and dust, and his nose and lungs were clogged with exhaust fumes. But the elevated section of the expressway that ran across the bottom of Shenton Way was his final destination. He turned left, parallel to the road above, then, with a quick glance around him, stepped into the scrubby shade that ran beside the pavement. He walked fast, moving deeper under the expressway, ducking round the occasional bush that survived in this insalubrious environment.

  He knew that the most northerly road in the container port, between Finger Pier and the Tajong Pagar workshop, ran beside a chain-link fence. On the other side of the fence was the wasteland he was now walking through. He was confident it would provide access to the perimeter under good cover, and he wasn’t disappointed. Out from under the shade of the expressway there was a thick growth of trees and bushes, which took him right up to the fence. Beyond was the twenty-four-hour bustle of the port. He found a spot on the edge of the cover and sat down to wait.

  He had two final jobs to do to complete his preparation. He hooked the laptop to the satellite phone and logged onto the Internet. Then he checked his email. There was nothing from Jasmine, which didn’t yet concern or surprise him. She had only had a day — he needn’t start feeling concerned until the following night. But there was confirmation of the target from Janac. It seemed the weather forecast was good — the high pressure would hold over the northern Philippines. He logged off, shut down the computer and packed it away — after pulling out the heavy roll of linen that had sat in the bottom of his pack since Dubre’s early-morning phone call. Hamnet hadn’t looked at this since Moh, Naisborough’s man, had given it to him in the Burmese jungle. He assumed he could thank General Lee’s men for his continued possession of the weapon, for their apparent failure to search his bag. That he had brought it all the way back to Singapore undetected was more the result of luck than cleverness. He’d completely forgotten about it until he had emptied his backpack at the Bullens’.

  He unwrapped the gun for only the second time, on this occasion to examine it properly. It was a nine-millimetre, semiautomatic SIG Sauer. He found the magazine catch between the trigger guard and the grip panels. The magazine clunked out easily enough, and he established that the weapon was loaded. He rolled the gun back up and packed it neatly beside the computer and phones. He was as ready as he’d ever be.

  Chapter 27

  At midnight Hamnet pulled the suit out of the holdall and changed. He arranged the stiff white collar back to front, but with no mirror to check how it looked he just had to hope it was convincing. After a little careful repacking, he managed to fit the contents of both bags in the holdall. He then hid his discarded clothes and the empty daypack under a scrappy shrub. Littering, he thought, was probably the most serious Singapore law he’d broken — so far.

  He crept up to the chain-link fence and started to move along it. On the other side, floodlights blazed down from high towers and loading cranes danced ponderously in the glare. It didn’t take him long to find the best spot. On the edge of a pool of light, there was thick foliage on both sides of the fence. A double strand of barbed wire at the top, set in a V, was the only thing that gave him any trouble, but once over that he was able to drop to the ground inside the container terminal, still hidden in the dank, green cover. The next stage was more difficult. He knew the site was covered by security cameras, and that creeping around it was the easy way to get caught. He had to front it out, and the hardest part was going to be stepping out of hiding. He pulled his orange, high-visibility vest out of the holdall — courtesy of Konsan — and slipped it on over the jacket.

  He crouched, waiting for one of the double-stack container lorries to make its way down the road. He didn’t have to wait long. The crash of gears announced the machine’s presence a hundred metres away. It rumbled closer. He didn’t hesitate. As it passed, he stood and walked quickly out from his cover, behind the lorry and across the tarmac. There was no howl of sirens, no response from the site security. Nothing altered in the background growl of port activity. He strode down the line of stacked containers, hauling in deep, slow breaths. Now he had to find the right ship.

  The Tanjong Pagar terminal was a highly orderly operation. Containers, in stacks five high, were arranged in strictly parallel rows, laid out between the tracks of the four-legged overhead cranes used to lift them. Hamnet headed east first, across the top of these rows, towards Finger Pier. When he reached this, he turned and walked south, ships and water to his left, towering piles of containers to his right. He glanced up occasionally to check the names of the boats. The Hanking Empire wasn’t among them. Still, no one paid him any attention. He crossed the pier at the bottom and worked his way north, along the East Lagoon. Halfway up he got lucky. There it was, painted in white on the flat black stern — Hanking Empire.

  Hamnet’s eyes roved over the vessel, quickly assessing his options as he approached. A single companionway ran up from the dock, thirty metres from the ste
rn. It reached the deck at the base of four storeys of accommodation. Above these rose the smoke stack, while forward of this was the bridge superstructure. The starboard wing deck hung out over an open companionway, and behind it was a lifeboat on derricks. That would make an awkward hiding place. It wasn’t overlooked, but any noise he made would be audible to anyone on the companionway below or on the wing deck. Another lifeboat looked more promising. It was slung from derricks on the third level so that it hung just above the aft railings on the open second deck. It was overlooked by an observation deck on the fourth level, and any noise might be picked up by anyone on the three lower decks. But those decks would see a lot less traffic than the wing deck and forward companionway. The aft lifeboat would be his target.

  Hamnet continued his steady pace towards the ship — he hadn’t missed a stride since spotting the name. Loading was still taking place inside the hull, but he couldn’t see anyone on deck, and the dock was frequented only by cranes. It was now or never. The machines continued in their labour as the distance peeled away — sixty, fifty, forty metres.

  There was a clatter from above. Hamnet’s head jerked up to see a slight figure in overalls and orange vest loping down the companionway towards him. Somehow Hamnet kept walking evenly, focusing on his stride length to keep his mind off the danger. The crewman reached the dockside before Hamnet arrived at the companionway. Hamnet did his best to smile. The man took a quick glance, his face hidden in shadow. Then he tapped his head. Hamnet didn’t understand at first, then realised he wasn’t wearing a hard hat. He broke his stride, and with a rush of inspiration held up and waved the holdall. The man understood but didn’t approve. ‘You should put it on, Father,’ he said in a Mancunian accent, with a faintly scolding tone. But he didn’t wait for a reply, let alone to watch Hamnet comply. Instead, he hurried on towards the crane working on the forward half of the ship.