The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I don’t follow you.’ She lit another cigarette with his Zippo then offered him the packet. He took a cigarette which she lit for him.

  ‘The hilltribe people who grow the poppies get about a hundred dollars for every kilo of opium,’ he said. ‘So the total crop would be worth somewhere in the region of two hundred and fifty million US dollars. It’s then processed into heroin and by the time it’s reached Bangkok it’s worth about eight thousand dollars a kilo.’ He reached for a calculator on his desk and tapped on the keys. ‘That would make the whole crop worth about one and a half billion dollars.’

  Jennifer scribbled the numbers into her notebook.

  ‘That’s only the start of it,’ he said. ‘The dealers here buy it for eight thousand dollars a kilo, they spend a couple of thousand bucks on the courier, and by the time it gets on to the streets of New York or London or Amsterdam or wherever, it’s worth almost half a million bucks, and when it’s been cut with whatever additives they’ve got access to, then that same kilo is worth three million dollars. Total street value of the heroin coming out of the Golden Triangle . . .’ He tapped a few more keys. ‘Five hundred and seventy billion dollars.’

  Jennifer’s pen stopped dead. ‘That’s impossible,’ she said.

  ‘No. That’s a fact. But not all of it gets to the West. There’s wastage, there’s the drugs we seize, and a lot is used in the region. Thailand has six hundred thousand addicts, and we reckon there’s two million in China. But about twenty tonnes of heroin gets to America each year from the Triangle. Street value, sixty billion dollars. So you can see why I don’t get excited about your guy and his kilo of smack.’

  ‘You’re not going to win, are you?’

  ‘The war against drugs? So long as people want drugs, there’ll be people making and selling them. There’s just too much money at stake. We can shut down areas of supply, we can hit distributors, we can lock up the users, but you’re right. Off the record, of course. Totally off the record.’ He took a sip of water and licked his lips.

  ‘What would you do, if you were calling the shots?’

  Carver thought about her question for several seconds. ‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. ‘We have to do something, but it’s a question of supply and demand. We have to change hearts and minds, we have to convince people that drugs are a bad thing.’

  ‘Tough job.’

  Carver shrugged. ‘What drugs have you taken?’ he asked.

  Jennifer smiled. ‘That presupposes that I have taken drugs, of course,’ she said. Carver didn’t say anything. Jennifer nodded slowly. ‘Marijuana, obviously,’ she said.

  ‘Obviously?’

  ‘Sure. Everyone tries it, right? I did coke, a few times. Never heroin, I’d never touch heroin. I tried ecstasy once, but it didn’t do anything for me.’

  ‘But you don’t have any moral convictions about drugs?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ said Jennifer. ‘But I can handle them, there was never any question of me becoming addicted.’

  ‘You might be right. But if you take the view that drugs are okay, and a lot of people do, then we’re wasting our time.’

  ‘Like prohibition was doomed to failure, you mean?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So maybe the best way to get it under control would be to treat heroin and cocaine in the same way as we treat tobacco and alcohol. Legalise it, tax it, and point out the risks. Then let people make their own choices.’

  ‘It’ll never happen,’ said Carver. He held up his half-smoked cigarette. ‘If anything, it’ll go the other way. Maybe these’ll become illegal eventually.’

  ‘Yeah? And if they do outlaw cigarettes, you think that’ll stop people smoking? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Carver. ‘But I’m just a foot soldier. I don’t get to make decisions, I just . . .’

  ‘. . . follow orders,’ Jennifer finished for him. She smiled. There was a smear of lipstick on her right canine, Carver noticed. It glistened like fresh blood. ‘I’ve just realised that I’ve confessed to a DEA agent that I’ve taken drugs.’

  ‘That’s okay, I won’t bust you.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Jennifer. ‘It might be fun.’ She put her notebook into her handbag and stood up. ‘Thanks for the info. I won’t take up any more of your time. Give me a call if you turn up anything on Warren Hastings.’ She leaned forward and stabbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, giving him another lingering look at her cleavage. ‘Or even if you don’t.’

  Carver picked up the piece of notepaper and ran it through his fingers as he watched her walk out of his office.

  HUTCH WAS DOING SIT-UPS on his sleeping mat when one of the Nigerians was put into the cell. Hutch stopped exercising and nodded a greeting.

  The Nigerian looked around the cell despondently. ‘Where do I sleep?’ he asked.

  ‘The new guy sleeps by the bucket,’ said Matt. He grinned at Hutch.

  The Nigerian walked over to the metal bucket. He peered down and wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘Shit,’ he said.

  ‘Sure is,’ said Matt.

  ‘You can sleep here,’ said Hutch, shuffling to the side to make room.

  The Nigerian walked over and stuck out his hand. ‘Joshua,’ he said.

  ‘Warren,’ said Hutch. They shook. Hutch’s hand was dwarfed by the Nigerian’s.

  Joshua looked at the other occupants of the cell. ‘Does anyone else speak English?’ he asked Hutch.

  Hutch shook his head. ‘Just you, me and Matt,’ he said. ‘Matt’s the one with the sense of humour. There was a Dutchman here, but he went to court.’

  Joshua sat down with his back against the wall. He wrapped his arms around his stomach.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Hutch asked.

  ‘They gave me something to make me shit,’ said Joshua. ‘To get the drugs out. Julian is managing to keep it all in, but it went straight through me.’ He eyed the bucket. ‘How often do they empty it?’ he asked.

  ‘Once a day. If we’re lucky.’

  A deep rumbling noise emanated from Joshua’s stomach. ‘Do you think they’ll let me see a doctor?’ he asked.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Hutch. ‘How much did you have inside you?’

  ‘A kilo.’

  ‘And you swallowed it all?’

  The Nigerian grinned. ‘Not at once,’ he said. ‘It was packed into condoms. About eighty. It took all day to get them down.’ He held up his right hand, his thumb and first finger a couple of inches apart. ‘Each condom was about this big. They gave me some green stuff to swallow while I was doing it. It numbs the throat and makes them slide down. Like oysters. Have you ever eaten oysters?’

  ‘Yeah, but not eighty at one go. What did it feel like?’

  ‘Like I’d eaten eighty oysters.’ Joshua rubbed his stomach. ‘Whatever the Thais gave me to flush them out, some of it’s still in there. I’ve got to use the bucket.’ He stood up and went over to the bucket. ‘This isn’t going to be pleasant,’ he warned, and dropped his trousers. The Thais shuffled away, muttering to each other. Hutch averted his eyes. If there was one thing worse than using the bucket, it was watching someone else use it.

  THE WOMAN CLUTCHED THE baby to her chest and made soft shushing sounds even though the baby showed no signs of waking. The stewardess smiled. ‘Such a good baby,’ said the stewardess. ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

  The woman didn’t know. ‘A boy,’ she said.

  ‘He didn’t cry once. Is he always this well behaved?’

  ‘Always,’ said the woman. She stepped out of the plane and walked down the stairs to the waiting bus. A Chinese businessman gave up his seat for her and she smiled her thanks. She held the baby close to her chest. On one arm she carried a bag filled with things a baby might need on a long flight: disposable nappies, a bottle of milk, tissues. The bottle was untouched.

  The bus drove quickly to the terminal. It would soon be over, but the woman couldn’t relax because the most crucial s
tage was still to come. The bus parked and the doors hissed open. The passengers rushed out, eager to be first to reach immigration control. The woman walked slowly, a benign smile on her face.

  She joined a queue and waited patiently. When it was her turn to show her passport she whispered into the baby’s ear.

  The immigration officer was a Chinese woman with purple lipstick. She examined the woman’s passport, then frowned. ‘The baby’s passport,’ she said.

  For a moment the woman was flustered. Then she realised it was still in her bag. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told the immigration officer. She fumbled in her bag and found the passport.

  The immigration officer checked the photograph in the brand new passport and then nodded at the baby. ‘Can I see the baby’s face, please?’

  The woman smiled. She turned the baby around and pulled the shawl away from its face. The immigration officer smiled for the first time, showing chipped and uneven teeth. ‘He’s a very quiet baby,’ she said. She was in her late forties and there was no wedding ring on her finger.

  ‘He’s always very well behaved,’ said the woman. ‘I think he likes flying.’

  The immigration officer looked at the baby for a few seconds, and then stamped both passports and gave them back to the woman.

  The woman waited at the luggage carousel. Her suitcase was small with a yellow strap around it. As she reached for it an American teenager stepped forward and lifted it off the carousel. ‘Let me help,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the woman in hesitant English. She took the case from him, holding the bag and the baby with her other hand.

  ‘Can you manage?’ he said.

  The woman frowned, not understanding.

  ‘Let me help you,’ said the teenager, taking the case for her. He had a large blue nylon rucksack on his back. The American walked with her to the Customs area.

  A Customs official wearing a light green uniform waved them over. ‘Where have you come from?’ he asked.

  ‘Bangkok,’ said the American boy.

  ‘Bangkok,’ said the woman.

  The Customs officer pointed at the suitcase. ‘Is that yours?’ he asked the American.

  ‘It’s hers,’ he said. ‘I’m just carrying it for her.’

  ‘Open it, please,’ the Customs officer said to the woman.

  She held the baby close as she opened the case with her free hand. The Customs officer checked the contents half-heartedly. Threadbare clothes, a washing kit, some Thai magazines, and a small plastic bag of green chillies.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, as if disappointed not to have found anything. He waved them through.

  The American carried her bag through the main arrivals area. A Chinese man in T-shirt and jeans walked over and spoke to the woman in Thai. She replied and the man took the bag off the American. ‘Thank you for helping my sister,’ he said in heavily accented English.

  ‘No sweat,’ said the American and he walked off in the direction of a taxi rank.

  ‘That was stupid,’ hissed the man.

  ‘I couldn’t stop him,’ said the woman.

  ‘Don’t do it again,’ said the man. ‘Use a trolley if you have to, but you carry your own bag.’ He walked with her out to the car park. A driver was already at the wheel of the blue Nissan. No one helped the woman get into the car, she had to open the passenger door herself.

  They drove in silence to a housing estate and into an underground car park. A small girl and her mother were in the lift, and they both smiled at the baby.

  ‘He’s so quiet,’ said the mother. She looked down at her daughter. ‘I wish you’d been that quiet when you were a baby. You cried all the time.’

  It was only when the two men and the woman got into the flat that the woman let out a long sigh of relief. She put the baby on to the kitchen table and massaged the back of her neck. The driver went into the lounge. The other man took a long knife from a drawer under the kitchen sink. He went over to the baby and unwrapped its shawl. A red line ran down the centre of the baby’s torso, an old cut that was held together with white stitches. The man used the knife to cut through the stitches one by one. The skin popped apart. The woman turned away.

  ‘Not squeamish, are you?’ grunted the man. ‘You carried it all the way from Bangkok.’

  The woman shuddered. It wasn’t her baby, and it had been dead when she collected it from the house on the outskirts of Bangkok, but that didn’t make her feel any better about what she’d done.

  The man reached into the baby’s body cavity and took out a plastic package the size of his fist. It was splattered with blood. He put it into the sink. There were another four packages inside the dead baby. Almost two kilos of pure heroin. The man rinsed them under the cold tap.

  The woman went into the lounge and poured herself a glass of whisky. She gulped it down. It was the tenth time she’d made the trip, the tenth time she’d carried a dead baby through Customs. She never asked where the babies came from, whether the mothers had been paid for them or whether they’d been stolen. That they had been killed solely for the purpose of smuggling heroin out of Thailand, she had little doubt. The tiny corpse would be incinerated, the drugs fed into the distribution network, and she’d be back in Bangkok within twenty-four hours with her thirty-thousand-baht fee. It was a lot of money, more money than she could earn in six months in Thailand.

  ‘Whose idea was this?’ she asked the driver.

  ‘This?’

  ‘The babies.’

  The man beamed. ‘Brilliant, isn’t it? It’s never failed. They never examine the babies.’

  The woman refilled her glass and stared into the amber liquid as if seeking an answer to her question there. ‘The man who thought of it, he must be mad.’

  ‘Oh no, he’s not mad. And he’d better never hear you call him that. Zhou Yuanyi is a very dangerous man.

  JENNIFER LEIGH WAS READING through a stack of photocopied newspaper cuttings that Rick Millett had given her, about the heroin trade and foreigners in Thai prisons, when there was a knock at the door. She looked up from her desk, an annoyed frown on her face. She’d left a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging on the doorknob as she’d wanted some peace and quiet while she read. The knock was repeated, louder this time.

  ‘Can’t you read?’ she yelled.

  ‘Er, it’s me,’ said an American voice.

  ‘Me who?’ shouted Jennifer.

  ‘Me, Tim Carver. I’ve got something for you.’

  Jennifer got to her feet. There was a mirror hanging on the wall above the desk and she checked herself in it. Damn it, why hadn’t he phoned first? She was wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of baggy shorts. She growled in frustration as she realised that she wasn’t even wearing a bra.

  ‘Yeah, hang on, Tim, will you?’ she called. ‘Sorry,’ she shouted, as an afterthought.

  She ripped off the sweatshirt, pulled one of her bras from a drawer and fumbled with it as she looked at her open suitcase for something decent to wear. She chose a pale green silk shirt and left the top two buttons undone. The shorts would have to stay, she realised. She ran a comb through her hair, grinned at the mirror to check that there were no remnants of her club sandwich lunch sticking to her teeth, and went over to open the door.

  Carver was wearing a beige linen suit that was rumpled at the knees and his hair was tousled as if he’d just got out of bed. He looked, thought Jennifer with a slight tightening of her stomach muscles, good enough to eat.

  ‘Hi, come in. Sorry about that.’

  Carver shrugged good naturedly. ‘This is Thailand,’ he said. ‘I’m used to waiting. Time moves at a different pace here, as you’ve probably discovered already.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Jennifer, closing the door. ‘Why do they walk so slowly? Three abreast so that they block the pavement?’

  ‘Just one of the mysteries of Thailand,’ said Carver, looking around the room. ‘Like, why do they put salt in their orange juice? This is a great room, Jennifer. Practicall
y a suite.’

  ‘Yeah, like I said before, it’s a freebie, so make yourself at home. Do you fancy a drink?’

  Carver sat down on a plush sofa and crossed his legs. ‘Just water,’ he said. He took out a pack of Marlboro and his lighter. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Do I mind? I’ve just smoked the last of my duty frees, so I’m gasping,’ she said.

  She took a bottle of Perrier water from the minibar, opened it and handed it to Carver. For a moment he looked as if he was going to ask for a glass, but then he drank straight from the bottle and put it down on the table next to the sofa. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to Jennifer.

  ‘Didn’t Humphrey Bogart do that in a movie?’ she asked.

  ‘What, drink Perrier?’

  Jennifer looked at Carver through slightly narrowed eyes, wondering if he was joking or not. ‘The thing with the cigarettes,’ she said. Carver looked confused and when he opened his mouth to ask her to explain, Jennifer waved a hand to cut him off. ‘Forget it,’ she said. She sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You said you had something for me?’

  ‘Information,’ he said.

  Jennifer smiled. That was a good sign, because he could have telephoned her. The fact that he’d turned up on her doorstep meant that he was interested. She leaned forward slightly. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Warren Hastings. It was a tip-off. Anonymous, which is unusual.’

  ‘Why unusual?’

  ‘Because the police generally pay for information leading to arrests. Most of their tip-offs, and ours, come from our regular informants. This one came out of the blue. I’ve checked with our Hong Kong office and Hastings isn’t known there, though that might just mean that he hasn’t been caught before. He runs a kennels there, trains dogs, looks after them while their owners are away, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘Have you got an address?’

  Carver grinned and pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket. ‘I knew you’d ask, so I’ve put it all down on paper for you.’

  Jennifer took it eagerly. She opened it and slid out a single sheet of paper. ‘Perfect,’ she said, quickly running her eyes over the typed information. ‘You’ve worked with journalists before. This is just what I wanted.’