The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Got everything?’ Chau-ling asked.

  Hutch looked around the room. His books, his CDs, the statues and trinkets he’d collected on his travels around the region, all the things that he owned, he was going to have to leave them all behind. ‘Yes,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I’ve got everything.’ A change of clothes, his washbag, his electric razor, and his Filofax. Not much to show for six years, but he’d left with less before.

  A red and grey taxi was waiting for him outside his front door. Chau-ling waved goodbye as he got into the back of the cab. Hutch closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of his seat. He was surprised at how guilty he’d felt when he’d lied to Chau-ling, surprised because ever since he’d arrived in Hong Kong he’d been living a lie. Even the name she knew him by wasn’t real: Warren Hastings just happened to be the name that Eddie Archer had chosen for the paperwork he’d put together in his Tower Hamlets workshop.

  He was going to miss Chau-ling, and the dogs, and his friends. He would have liked to have been able to have said a proper goodbye to Davies and Metcalfe but there would have been too many questions. Hutch couldn’t afford to let anyone know what his plans were.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Huh?’ grunted the taxi driver.

  Hutch opened his eyes. He hadn’t realised that he’d spoken out loud. ‘M ganyu,’ he said. Nothing important, in Cantonese. He’d gone to a lot of time and trouble to learn the language, and now it would all be wasted. He’d have to run far away from Hong Kong, he’d have to cut all the connections with his old life, just as he’d done seven years earlier. It would be like a rebirth, but first he’d have to kill off Warren Hastings, kill him off so unequivocally that no one would go looking for him. He’d have to find a new occupation, too, and that was a shame because he’d loved training dogs. Chris Hutchison had been a locksmith, Warren Hastings had been a dog trainer; God alone knew what he’d end up doing in his next life. He was thirty-two years old and he was running out of options.

  He patted the holdall. The Filofax in the bag contained details of the half-dozen bank accounts he’d set up in various offshore locations: Jersey, Guernsey, the Cayman Islands and Gibraltar. He wouldn’t risk touching his two bank accounts with the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank but he’d be able to transfer his money out of the offshore accounts as soon as he was out of the territory. It wasn’t a fortune, most of his assets were tied up in the kennels and the house, but it would be enough to buy him a new identity.

  The taxi dropped him in front of the airport terminal and Hutch strode into the departures hall. He went up to the Cathay Pacific sales desk and asked for a ticket on the next flight to Singapore. He planned to fly from there to the United States, and then he’d drive across the border into Mexico where he would kill off Warren Hastings. He’d be able to buy a new passport there and head south into Central America. It wasn’t much of a plan, but bearing in mind it had only been eight hours since he’d been confronted by Billy Winter, Hutch reckoned he wasn’t doing too badly. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and took out a credit card. He wouldn’t need to start covering his tracks until he got to Singapore; Winter had said that he’d be at Hutch’s house at noon. Even if he carried out his threat, Winter would have to call London. Hong Kong was seven hours ahead of the UK, so Winter would have to wait until three p.m. Hong Kong time, maybe four, and the police would have to check out his story before contacting the airlines. That was assuming that Winter went straight to the police, and Hutch doubted that he’d do that. Winter needed his help, so it was more likely that he’d try to track him down first.

  ‘You won’t be needing that, old lad,’ said a voice behind Hutch. It was a gruff Geordie whisper.

  Hutch’s stomach lurched. He nodded at the Cathay Pacific salesgirl and slid the credit card back into his wallet. Only then did he turn around.

  Billy Winter stood behind him, a big smile on his face. It was a predatory grin, like a shark preparing to strike. Winter picked up Hutch’s holdall. ‘The motor’s outside,’ he said.

  Hutch put the wallet back into his pocket and followed Winter out of the terminal.

  A green Rolls-Royce was waiting and the two men climbed into the back. Winter nodded at the liveried chauffeur and the Rolls-Royce pulled away from the kerb.

  Hutch sat back, his hands clasped together in his lap. ‘I didn’t realise I was so predictable,’ he said quietly.

  Winter flipped open a drinks cabinet and poured himself a brandy. ‘You want a snifter?’ he asked Hutch.

  ‘Bit early for me,’ said Hutch.

  Winter sipped his brandy, all the time watching Hutch with amused eyes. He warmed the glass between his hands. ‘You’re a runner, Hutch. That’s what you do. When you’re faced with a crisis, you run.’ Hutch shrugged but didn’t say anything. ‘The only time you stand and fight is when you’re in a corner. Like the guy you killed. You couldn’t run then, could you?’

  Hutch sighed. ‘Where are we going, Billy?’

  Winter’s eyes hardened. ‘I’m going to paint you into a corner, Hutch, old lad. I’m going to show you that there’s no point in running.’ He raised his brandy glass in salute. ‘Cheers.’

  The Rolls-Royce drove smoothly through the streets of Tsim Sha Tsui, past luxury hotels and expensive shops. The pavements were so densely packed that there appeared to be no space between the people: men in dark suits carrying portable phones rubbed shoulders with bare-chested labourers; sunburned tourists in shorts stared into shop windows while schoolchildren hurried by in neatly pressed uniforms, weighed down with stacks of schoolbooks in small rucksacks.

  ‘They’re going to rule the world one day, Hutch,’ said Winter. ‘Take my word for it.’

  Hutch stared out of the window with unseeing eyes. He felt sick and took deep breaths to try to steady his stomach. He wondered what Winter had planned for him.

  ‘There’s a billion of them,’ Winter continued, lighting a cigar. ‘A billion. And they work together, Hutch, that’s what makes them unbeatable. Not like us and the Krauts and the Frogs, always fighting wars, always trying to fuck each other over. There’s no one big enough to stand up to the Chinese – not the Americans, not the Japanese, not even a united Europe, even if there was such a thing. We’re fucked, Hutch. Fucked and we don’t even know it.’

  The Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the Peninsula Hotel. Winter took his cigar out of his mouth and jabbed it at the building. ‘Look at that, old lad. That’s class. They use Rollers for their punters, nothing but green Rollers. Costs an arm and a leg.’

  Hutch didn’t reply. He wasn’t even listening. He was looking for a way out. He still had his passport, he could still run. There was no point in trying the airport again but he could get the hydrofoil to Macau and fly from there. But first he had to find out what it was that Winter thought he could use against him. Hutch wracked his brains. What could be worse than turning him in? What could be worse than going back to Parkhurst and spending the rest of his life behind bars?

  A white-uniformed bellboy with a pillbox hat pulled open the door and Winter strode into the foyer. He surveyed the luxurious interior as if he owned the building, and put his arm around Hutch’s shoulders. ‘It don’t get much better than this, do it? A chauffeur-driven Roller to one of the world’s top hotels. I bet you never thought when we were banged up on the Isle of Wight, that we’d end up here, huh?’

  He ushered Hutch over to the elevators, and stabbed at the button for the fifth floor. They rode up together in silence and walked along the plush carpet to Winter’s room.

  The view was spectacular but Hutch barely noticed it. He stood in the centre of the room and glared at Winter. ‘Well?’ he said defiantly.

  ‘Sit down, Hutch,’ said Winter, indicating a chair by the window. ‘Sit down and shut up.’ He stubbed his cigar out in a large crystal ashtray. Hutch stayed where he was, his hands on his hips, while Winter went over to his suitcase and took out a video cassette, then opened a cabinet to reveal
a large television and a video recorder. ‘Sit down,’ he repeated. This time Hutch did as he was told.

  Winter tapped the video cassette on his leg. For a moment he looked as if he wanted to say something, but then he shrugged and slotted the cassette into the recorder. He sat on the bed as the screen flickered. ‘Don’t look at me, Hutch. Look at the TV.’

  Hutch stared at the flickering screen. It had obviously been filmed on a small camcorder; the picture wobbled and shook as if the person filming wasn’t used to handling the equipment. It was a football match, boys eight or nine years old running after a bouncing ball, shrieking and yelling. The camcorder focused clumsily on a blond-haired boy with red cheeks wearing shorts several sizes too big for him.

  ‘He’s nine next month,’ said Winter. ‘He wants to play for Manchester United. He doesn’t live in Manchester, in case you were thinking of looking for him. She’s changed her name, of course. And his. New names, new life. She’s seeing a man. A doctor. He’s divorced, too. With two daughters, but his wife’s got custody.’

  The camcorder followed the boy as he kicked the ball high into the air and ran after it, arms flailing. The goalkeeper, a gangly red-haired boy, rushed out of the goalmouth but he was too late and Hutch’s son kicked the ball past him.

  ‘Bit of a fluke, I thought, but a goal’s a goal, right?’ said Winter. Both teams of schoolboys ran back to their places to restart the game while a balding teacher in a baggy tracksuit picked the ball out of the net. ‘It’s a private school. Expensive. The doctor pays, of course. You should be proud of your boy, Hutch. Very proud.’

  The screen went blank. Winter stood up and ejected the cassette. He pretended to throw it to Hutch, but at the last minute kept hold of it. ‘No, I think not,’ said Winter. ‘You won’t need it where we’re going.’

  Hutch stared at Winter, his stomach churning. ‘You’ve changed,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yeah? Well, we’re all getting older.’ He took a cigar case from his inside pocket.

  ‘That’s not what I mean and you know it. This isn’t your style. You were never the sort to threaten a man’s family.’

  Winter smiled tightly, a grimace that was devoid of any humour. ‘You never knew me on the outside.’ He extracted a large cigar from the cigar case. ‘Let’s say I want someone to do something for me. Something dangerous. Something illegal. And say I tell whoever it is that if they do that dangerous thing for me, then I’ll give him a house. Do you think he’ll do it?’ Winter didn’t wait for Hutch to answer. ‘Of course he won’t,’ he said. He bit the end of the cigar off and spat it towards a wastepaper basket in the corner of the room, missing by several feet. ‘He’s not going to trust me, he won’t believe that I’ll actually give him a house, right?’ He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a book of matches.

  ‘But if I go into his house late at night with a couple of heavies and a can of petrol, and if I pour the petrol over him and his wife in bed, and if I take out a box of matches . . .’ Winter pulled a match out of the book and lit it. He used the match to get his cigar burning, then held it between his thumb and first finger as it burned. ‘You see, Hutch, then he’s going to believe that I’m going to do what I say. He’s going to believe that I’ll burn him and his wife and his house.’ Winter tossed the match on to the carpeted floor. It spluttered and died out. ‘The bad stuff he’ll believe, the good stuff he won’t.’

  Hutch nodded. ‘What time’s our flight?’

  JAKE GREGORY STOOD ON the veranda and stared out across Kandawgyi Lake. The rain came down in sheets, an endless torrent that beat down on the roof of the bungalow in a deafening roar. The sky above was gunmetal grey, the lake so dark it was almost black. The monsoon rain had washed the colour out of the landscape but there was no hiding the beauty of the jungle-covered hills. Gregory sipped his Diet Coke, lukewarm because he didn’t trust the ice. He was only going to be in the country for twenty-four hours and if the price of avoiding diarrhoea was a warm Coke or two, he’d put up with it.

  He saw the umbrella first, fluorescent orange and white stripes, moving from side to side in an almost random motion. As it came closer he saw there were two figures sheltering underneath it, stepping carefully to avoid the deeper puddles as they walked along the path to the bungalow. The taller of the two men was wearing a khaki uniform and holding the umbrella. The other man was broader and wearing a safari suit. Both had military haircuts, almost as short as Gregory’s own crew cut. Gregory drained his can and put it down on a rattan table. He went to the front of the veranda and waited for his visitors to arrive. He smiled as he saw that the man in the safari suit had rolled up his trouser legs to keep them from getting wet in the downpour. It was a sensible move, but it made him look as if he was paddling in the sea.

  ‘Mr Gregory,’ said the man in the safari suit. He stepped on to the veranda, his arm extended. ‘Welcome to Myanmar.’ He was shorter than Gregory by several inches but kept his head tilted slightly up as if to compensate for his lack of stature.

  Gregory shook the man’s hand. ‘General, it’s good of you to come,’ said Gregory. ‘Shall we go inside?’

  The General nodded and walked past him into the bungalow. The man with the umbrella remained resolutely in the rain. The air-conditioner was on, rumbling unobtrusively in the background.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘Whisky, if you have it.’

  Gregory suppressed a smile. He knew exactly what the General drank, and had bought a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label from the duty-free shop at the airport in Bangkok. He poured a large measure into a crystal tumbler and handed it to the General. The man with the umbrella had still made no move to come in out of the rain. Gregory closed the sliding glass door that led to the veranda and stood with his back to it as the General dropped down into a cane chair.

  ‘So how do you find our country, Mr Gregory?’ the General asked as he carefully unrolled the bottoms of his trousers. His English was flawless, the enunciation that of the British upper classes.

  ‘Breathtaking scenery,’ said Gregory.

  The General smiled and savoured the bouquet of the whisky. ‘Yes, our scenery is beautiful. Our temples are beautiful, too. Have you seen any of our temples?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, no,’ said Gregory.

  ‘A pity. Scenery and temples, we have both in abundance.’ He raised the whisky-filled glass. ‘Other things are in short supply.’ He smiled, showing white even teeth. ‘So tell me, Mr Gregory, how can I help you?’

  Gregory went over to a long sofa and sat down facing the General. ‘Zhou Yuanyi,’ he said.

  ‘Ah yes. A thorn in my side.’ The General drank his whisky slowly, savouring each swallow.

  ‘And ours. He is swamping the east coast of America with heroin – heroin of a very high quality at a very low cost.’

  The General nodded. ‘A fact of which the government here is well aware, I can assure you.’

  ‘Aware, yes. But to date you have been unable to resolve the problem.’

  ‘There are . . . difficulties. He has a considerable number of men, highly trained, well equipped. And he has connections in Thailand.’

  ‘Connections?’

  The General drained his tumbler. Gregory picked up the bottle of Black Label and poured him another drink. The General nodded his thanks. ‘Much of Zhou’s heroin is refined on our side of the border before being smuggled into Thailand. I say smuggled, but it actually goes over with the connivance of the Thai army. Zhou is not ungenerous with his associates. Several very high-ranking members of the Thai military have grown very rich thanks to Zhou. Very rich indeed.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Moral standards in Thailand are not quite as, how shall I put it, inflexible as they are here in Myanmar.’

  Gregory resisted the urge to smile. Both men knew that corruption was equally rife on either side of the border. It was a way of life in South-east Asia, and it permeated from the upper echelons of government all the way down to the man
on the street. ‘You’ve tried several times to apprehend him, without success.’

  The General shrugged. ‘We have come close, but as you Americans say, no cigar.’

  ‘Do you think he was tipped off?’

  ‘Almost certainly. We’ve closed down several of his refineries, burned some of his poppy fields, imprisoned some of his men, but we’ve made no real progress. He moves too quickly. Have you been to the Golden Triangle?’ Gregory nodded. ‘Then you know what the terrain is like. We can’t send in tanks or even jeeps, and helicopters aren’t much use because his bases are too well camouflaged. Unless we know where to look, they can fly around for weeks and not see anything. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, Mr Gregory.’

  ‘We in the United States appreciate the problems you have, General,’ said Gregory. ‘Which is why we have formulated a proposal which might interest you.’

  The General gave Gregory a half-wave, indicating that he should continue. The rain beat heavily on the roof of the bungalow, abated for a few seconds, and then returned, even louder than before.

  ‘We intend to locate Zhou’s headquarters. More specifically, the man himself. I can’t tell you how, but within the next few weeks we hope to have a clear indication of where he is.’

  ‘And then?’ asked the General.

  ‘That depends on whether we can count on your co-operation or not.’

  The General crossed his legs at the ankles and rested his tumbler of whisky on his knee. ‘What form would my co-operation take?’ he asked.

  ‘The use of an airfield, as close to the Golden Triangle as possible. And facilities for a small contingent of American troops.’

  ‘How small?’

  ‘We don’t envisage requiring more than twelve.’

  The General raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You intend to take on one of the most powerful warlords in Asia with a dozen men?’

  ‘Not take on, General. Take out.’