In about fifty years, thought Jennifer acidly. Chau-ling sounded like a Chinese name, yet the English accent was faultless. ‘You train dogs, don’t you?’ asked Jennifer.
‘That’s right.’
‘I have a dog that needs training. Can I come around later this week?’
‘Of course. I’ll give you directions. Do you have a pen?’
Jennifer tapped her notebook. ‘I certainly do,’ said Jennifer. She wrote down Chau-ling’s instructions, and then hung up. She rubbed the back of her neck. The tingle had returned. She was sure that she was going to get something from the girl.
THE UKRAINIAN SLAPPED HIS neck with the palm of his hand but the mosquito was too quick for him and had already flown away, laden with blood. He scratched the spot where he’d been bitten and cursed venomously.
The Chinese mercenary riding the horse in front of him turned and grinned. The Chinese never seemed to get bitten, the Ukrainian had noticed. Maybe it was something to do with their diet, or the cigarettes they were always smoking. Or maybe it was just that Ukrainian blood was sweeter. He waved at the mercenary, letting him know he was okay. The man spoke no Russian or English and all communication had been with gestures and smiles. The mercenary slipped a bottle of Coca-Cola from his belt and drank from it.
The Ukrainian’s mule stumbled and he grabbed at the saddle as a small avalanche of red dirt scattered down the hillside. He had grown to hate the bad-tempered animal, which kept its head resolutely down and whose hoofs seemed to find every tree root and hidden rock in the trail. Last time he’d made the trek to Zhou Yuanyi’s camp he’d been given a horse. Admittedly it hadn’t been much of a horse, but it had been a hundred times more comfortable than the mule. There was a water bottle tied to the pommel of the antiquated saddle and the Ukrainian unscrewed the metal top and drank from it. The liquid was hot, almost too hot to drink. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The peaked cotton cap he was wearing shaded his face from the sun’s rays, but the heat was all-pervasive and his khaki shirt and trousers were soaked through with sweat. He hated the climate almost as much as he hated the mule.
The Ukrainian wasn’t exactly sure where they were going. Zhou Yuanyi changed his headquarters on a regular basis. He had many enemies, which was one of the reasons he was so keen to buy what the Ukrainian had to sell.
The mule stumbled again and the Ukrainian kicked its flanks. He might as well have been kicking a log. He looked over to his right and immediately wished he hadn’t. The hillside plunged precipitously away and far below was a muddy brown river peppered with jagged rocks. To his relief, the convoy turned away from the ravine and into the relative safety of the jungle. The trail they were following wound its way through the vegetation, most of which was dripping with water, and soon the Ukrainian couldn’t see the sky, so thick was the tree cover overhead. He could understand why Zhou Yuanyi found it so easy to hide in the jungle.
He twisted around in his saddle, keeping his right hand on the pommel to maintain his balance. Behind him were another twenty mules, several with riders, Chinese and Thai mercenaries with rifles strapped to their backs, others loaded with wooden boxes. He had travelled with the boxes on a freighter to Samut Sakhon, a port close to Bangkok, and then on a truck overland to the border, then on a boat up the Mekong River to another truck, and when the roads had petered out they’d taken to the godforsaken mules and crippling saddles. He’d camped overnight with the boxes, never letting them out of his sight, but now he was nearing the end of his journey. He was taking a risk, heading into the jungle with men who would kill for the contents of his wallet, let alone for what was in the crates, but the Ukrainian knew that the mercenaries feared Zhou Yuanyi and would never disobey him.
A dragonfly, its body a brilliant blue, buzzed by his face and he jerked back in surprise. He hated insects, almost as much as he hated the mule and the climate, but at least dragonflies didn’t bite. His mule walked under a tree with spreading branches, and leaves brushed against his face. The Ukrainian shuddered at the slippery touch of the vegetation. It felt like the tentacles of some slimy sea creature. The image made him think of the snakes that could be hiding in the branches of the trees all around him and he reached for the handle of the machete that hung from the saddle.
The trail wound around a massive tree trunk that rippled with vines as thick as his leg, and then the vegetation began to thin out. The Ukrainian sniffed. He could smell smoke. Ahead of them was a fence of bamboo stakes, half as tall again as a man, and set into it was an open gate, guarded by two men wearing traditional Burmese longyi, sarong-style trousers, and chewing on cheroots as they cradled modern M16 rifles in their arms. They waved at the Chinese mercenary and said something to him, but the Ukrainian couldn’t even tell what language they were using, never mind understand what they were saying.
To the right of the entrance was a wooden pole on top of which was a gleaming white mask. The Ukrainian peered at it as he rode by, and he realised with a jolt that it wasn’t a mask, it was a human skull. He shivered, but knew better than to show any sign of weakness. He turned his attention to the M16s carried by the guards, and wondered where Zhou had got them from. They seemed almost new, and the guards had bands of cartridges around their waists and shoulders. It looked as if Zhou now had another supplier, which was going to make negotiating a price that much harder. Not that the Ukrainian was worried. He had an ace in the hole. Four aces in fact.
The caravan moved slowly into the compound, past clusters of thatched huts towards a much larger building which had been constructed of wood hewn from the jungle. It was built on thick wooden stilts and wide planks formed stairs running up to a large door made of bamboo stakes. It had a sloping roof made of rusting sheets of corrugated iron over which had been strewn camouflage netting. Behind the building were two metal towers like electricity pylons, atop of which were several aerials and satellite dishes.
The bare soil around the building had been stamped hard by countless feet and hoofs. Half a dozen horses, big and well nourished with gleaming hides that put the caravan’s horseflesh into the shade, stood tethered to the left of the building. One of them was a magnificent animal, a tall white stallion.
The Chinese mercenary slid smoothly off his horse and motioned for the Ukrainian to do the same. The Ukrainian grunted as he climbed down. They took their mounts over to a corral behind the main building where a small boy was using a bright yellow plastic bucket to fill a trough with water. The Ukrainian tied his mule to a wooden rail, well away from the trough. He grinned and slapped the sullen animal on the neck. He’d make sure that Zhou gave him a real horse for the ride back to civilisation. It would be the least he could do for the four aces the Ukrainian had brought with him.
He wiped his hands on his trousers. He felt as if the dirt from the two days’ travelling through the jungle had become ingrained into his skin, and he knew that he must smell pretty bad. He wanted a shower or a bath, but he also wanted to spend as little time as possible in the compound. It was a dangerous place, he knew. Many who visited never left. Some ended up as skulls on the top of bamboo poles.
He walked around to the front of the building. Two more armed guards stood at attention at either side of the wooden stairs, their M16s held in front of them. They stared at the Ukrainian as if daring him to try to get past them.
‘My friend, my friend, how was your journey?’ asked a booming voice from the top of the stairs. The Ukrainian looked up. Zhou was standing there, his legs apart and his hands on his hips. He was wearing a black silk shirt that appeared to have been freshly laundered and gleaming black riding boots over spotless beige jodhpurs. Zhou had put on a little weight over the two years that had passed since the Ukrainian had last seen the warlord, but his smooth-shaven, round face didn’t appear to have aged. He was wearing sunglasses, a different pair to the ones he’d had on last time they’d met. The Ukrainian had never seen the warlord’s eyes and, for some reason, he never wanted to. He was happier having his own
reflection staring back at him. It seemed somehow safer.
‘Long and uncomfortable,’ said the Ukrainian. ‘But hopefully profitable.’
‘We shall see,’ boomed Zhou, beckoning the Ukrainian up the stairs.
As the Ukrainian walked slowly up the wooden steps, a group of Zhou’s soldiers came around the side of the building carrying the boxes that had been tied to the backs of the mules.
‘You have everything we spoke of?’ asked Zhou, patting the Ukrainian on the back.
‘And more,’ said the Ukrainian. He stepped across the threshold into the cool interior. There was one large room, with two wood-bladed fans turning softly in the ceiling. Giant loudspeakers stood either side of a matt black stereo system. To the right was a teak-framed kingsize bed shrouded in mosquito nets, its sheets in disarray. A figure lay on the bed, but all the Ukrainian could see through the fine mesh was the outline of a young girl lying face down, her head resting on her arms. Next to the bed stood a large-screen television set and a video recorder, and a double-doored refrigerator. Much of the furniture was in the traditional Thai style, but there was a massive ornate desk that looked like a French antique and behind it an equally fussy gilded chair. An IBM computer sat on the desk and an extension cord trailed across the teak floor and out of a window like an escaping snake. From behind the building came the pulsing throb of a diesel generator.
Zhou dropped down on to a teak bench piled with silk cushions and waved the Ukrainian to a large cushion under the slowly circulating fan. The Ukrainian felt exposed as he sat down: there was nothing behind him except for two wooden doors that led off to the rest of the building. Zhou’s seat, however, was up against a wall. The warlord was deliberately trying to make him feel uneasy, the Ukrainian knew. It had happened last time he’d visited, and he was happy to play the game. If Zhou ever decided to turn against him, it wouldn’t matter where the Ukrainian was sitting.
‘A drink?’ Zhou asked.
‘Whisky would be good,’ said the Ukrainian.
Zhou spoke to an elderly servant wearing a white jacket and black pants. A bottle of Black Label whisky was produced on a silver tray along with a full ice bucket, a pair of silver tongs and a glass. The ice impressed even the Ukrainian, who was by now well used to Zhou’s eccentricities. There couldn’t have been many ice-making machines in the jungle.
‘Coke? Or ginger ale?’ Zhou indicated the refrigerator.
‘Water will be fine,’ said the Ukrainian.
Zhou spoke to the servant again. The bottled water was French.
The Ukrainian took a small package from his pocket and handed it to Zhou, who opened it eagerly, ripping away the wrapping paper and letting it fall to the ground in his excitement. It was a compact disc. Zhou beamed at the Ukrainian. ‘Billy Ray Cyrus. Excellent. Thank you.’
The Ukrainian nodded. The warlord loved country music and the Ukrainian had made a special trip to a music store in Bangkok to buy the CD.
‘Do you mind?’ asked Zhou, holding up the CD.
‘Of course, go ahead,’ said the Ukrainian.
Zhou went over to his stereo and slotted the CD in. He adjusted the volume, listened to the first few bars, and then went back to join his visitor. ‘Billy Ray Cyrus is one of my favourite singers, did you know that?’
The Ukrainian nodded again. He knew. Last time he had visited the warlord, he had had to sit through his rendition of ‘Achy Breaky Heart’. Outside, he could hear the wooden crates being stacked up.
‘AK-47s?’ asked Zhou.
‘All brand new,’ said the Ukrainian. The servant retreated to the far end of the room and stood there stock still, his head bowed, like a marionette waiting for a puppeteer to bring him to life.
‘I have M16s now,’ said Zhou, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose with a perfectly manicured finger.
‘So I saw.’
‘They are good weapons, M16s.’
The Ukrainian shrugged carelessly. ‘Talk to me again in six months,’ he said. ‘After the jungle has got to them.’
Zhou lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and exhaled before speaking. He held the cigarette between the thumb and first finger of his right hand, delicately, as if he feared that it might break. ‘My men know how to take care of their weapons,’ he said.
‘I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But M16s don’t compare to the AK-47 in terms of reliability, not in the jungle. They’ll jam.’ He grinned. ‘Trust me, they’ll jam. Why do you think so many of the American Special Forces used Kalashnikovs in Vietnam? They couldn’t wait to ditch their M16s.’
Zhou flicked ash into a huge crystal ashtray at his elbow. ‘You might be right,’ he said coldly. ‘How many did you bring?’
‘One hundred and twenty. With one hundred thousand rounds of ammunition.’
‘I need more,’ said Zhou.
‘More guns? Or bullets?’
‘Both.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ve brought fragmentation grenades. Eight dozen. And anti-personnel mines, Czech made. Plastic so they can’t be detected.’
Zhou nodded and pursed his lips. ‘Mines are good,’ he said. ‘And your price is as agreed?’
‘As agreed,’ said the Ukrainian. ‘And I’ll take it in heroin. But first, I have something else. A surprise.’
He got to his feet and went over to the door. The Chinese mercenary was standing by the wooden boxes. The Ukrainian pointed to one of the crates and the mercenary yelled at two soldiers in camouflage uniform, who carried the crate up the steps and into the building.
Zhou stood up and watched as the Ukrainian used a screwdriver to prise open the box. The warlord whistled softly as the Ukrainian removed the lid and pulled away the polystyrene packing material.
The Ukrainian sat cross-legged on the floor. ‘Made in the Soviet Union when it was a union,’ he said.
‘How many?’ asked Zhou.
‘Four.’
‘And you can show me and my men how to use them?’
‘Of course. But you just point and pull the trigger. The missile does the rest. It goes straight for a heat source. Providing it’s aimed at a helicopter or a plane, that’s where it’ll go.’
‘Range?’
‘Ten kilometres. Just over six miles.’
Zhou knelt down beside the Grail SA-7 portable ground-to-air missile launcher and stroked it as if it were his only son. ‘How much?’ he whispered.
The Ukrainian rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed. ‘Expensive,’ he said. ‘But you can afford it.’
The warlord’s head jerked around and the dark lenses stared at the Ukrainian, his lips set in a tight line. For a moment the Ukrainian feared that he’d gone too far, but then the lips curled back into a cruel smile and Zhou began to laugh. He slapped the Ukrainian on the back, hard, as his laughter echoed around the building.
THE WROUGHT-IRON GATES to the kennels were open but Jennifer Leigh told the taxi driver to wait outside. He protested in broken English and told her that he wanted to get back to the airport, but Jennifer hadn’t seen any other taxis in the vicinity and she didn’t want to be stranded. ‘Keep the meter running,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay for the waiting time.’
‘Huh?’ he grunted.
Jennifer pointed at the meter. ‘Meter,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay. Okay?’
The driver looked as if he wanted to argue but Jennifer didn’t give him the opportunity. She slammed the door and walked through the open gates, past a large wooden sign with the name of the kennels and underneath, in block capital letters: ‘Warren Hastings, Prop.’
Jennifer had changed into a two-piece cream suit at the airport and left her suitcase at the left-luggage counter. In her handbag was a small tape recorder with enough tape for half an hour. She looked at her wristwatch and noted the time. She didn’t expect it would take longer than thirty minutes, but she could always say she needed to use the bathroom before the machine was due to click off. Her high heels crunched as she walked along the grave
l path towards the two-storey house with its whitewashed walls and red-tiled roof. From behind the house she could hear excited barks and yelps and she headed towards the noise.
There were two kennel buildings, each with adjacent runs. In one of the enclosures a young Chinese girl with a ponytail was putting down bowls of food.
Jennifer went over to the wire fence. ‘Excuse me, are you Chau-ling?’ she asked.
The kennel maid straightened up. An exuberant Boxer jumped up and splattered her T-shirt with its muddy paws and the girl pushed it away. ‘No, she’s in the office,’ said the girl.
Jennifer looked in the direction the girl was pointing. Linking the two kennel buildings, like the centre bar of the letter H, was a brick building with large windows. Through the windows Jennifer could make out a couple of desks and a noticeboard studded with coloured pins.
‘Thanks,’ said Jennifer, but the girl had already gone.
Jennifer walked over to the office and knocked.
‘Yes. Hi. Come in.’ It was the voice on the phone.
Jennifer smiled, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. ‘Hi. My name’s Jennifer Leigh,’ she said.
Chau-ling was chewing the end of a pen. ‘You don’t know anything about provident fund contributions, do you?’ she asked, brushing a strand of long black hair from her face.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Jennifer. ‘I’m a journalist, not an accountant.’
‘Well, our accountant’s in Macau playing the roulette tables and these have to be filled in by the end of the week.’ She put the pen down. ‘Anyway, that’s my problem. How can I help you? She stood up and Jennifer noticed with a twinge of envy how trim the girl’s figure was. Early twenties, Jennifer reckoned, maybe twenty-four, but with the skin tone of a teenager and the cheekbones of a supermodel. Her hair was a glossy black that Jennifer had never seen outside of a shampoo commercial, and even the faded Harvard sweatshirt and baggy blue jeans she was wearing didn’t detract from her prettiness.
The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 19