Polcharn guided the Toyota into an underground car park, stopping to take a ticket from the automatic dispenser. He drove down to the third level. The Mercedes was already there, its engine still running. As Polcharn brought the Toyota to an abrupt halt next to the Mercedes, the briefcase slid forward and bumped against the back of the seat in front of Wonlop. Wonlop said nothing. He opened the door and walked over to the Mercedes. The windows were tinted and all he saw was his own reflection. For all he could tell, he could be looking down the barrel of a gun. Or several guns.
As he reached the Mercedes, the rear door opened. The occupant of the rear seat slid over to make room for Wonlop, and he climbed in, pulling the door shut behind him. There were two big men in the front of the car but they didn’t turn around.
The man in the back seat was an obese Chinese wearing a grey suit that barely managed to contain his spreading stomach. He held out a damp hand. ‘Welcome to Hong Kong again, Khun Wonlop,’ he said.
Wonlop took the offered hand and shook it. He didn’t like the Western-style greeting, in fact he disliked most forms of physical contact, but he had no wish to cause offence. ‘You look well, Mr Lee,’ he said. Both men spoke halting English. It was the only language they had in common. Wonlop took back his hand and placed it on his briefcase. He resisted a sudden urge to wipe his palm.
‘You too,’ said Lee, beaming. Lee was in his early fifties with an oval head that disappeared into his shirt with no sign of a neck. He had small eyes either side of a pug nose, and fleshy lips. He toyed with a large gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand as he spoke. ‘It’s good to see you back so soon.’
Wonlop gave a small shrug. It had been three months since he’d last worked in Hong Kong, but he didn’t care to be reminded of it. Lee charged high prices, and for that Wonlop expected a discretion that bordered on amnesia. It was unprofessional of Lee to have referred to the previous contract. ‘Do you have what I asked for?’ he said.
Mr Lee looked wounded by the suggestion that he might have turned up empty handed. He opened his hands and turned them palms upwards. ‘But of course,’ he said. He spoke in Cantonese to the man in the front passenger seat and a cloth-wrapped parcel was passed over. Lee took it and handed it to Wonlop. ‘Exactly as you requested,’ said Lee.
Wonlop unwrapped the package. There were two guns, both Chinese-made automatics, and two bulbous silencers. Wonlop picked up the guns and checked them.
‘Both clips are full. Do you require more ammunition?’ Lee asked.
‘This will be enough,’ said Wonlop as he ejected the clip from one of the guns.
‘My standard arrangement applies, of course,’ said Lee. ‘I will buy them back from you at half the price you pay if they are not fired.’
Wonlop sighted down the barrel of the handgun. ‘I shall not be returning them,’ he said. He attached the silencer with a few deft twists, then removed it. He sniffed it to check that it had not been used. A used silencer was worse than no silencer at all.
‘As you wish,’ said Lee. He rubbed his hands together as Wonlop stripped and checked the second weapon. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Khun Wonlop?’
‘Not this time, thank you,’ said Wonlop. He rewrapped the guns and silencers and put them in his briefcase. He took out a brown envelope and handed it to Lee before clicking the briefcase shut.
‘It has been a pleasure doing business with you,’ said Lee, ‘I hope to see you again soon.’
Wonlop nodded and climbed out of the Mercedes. He had already decided that he would not be buying any further weapons from Mr Lee.
CHAU-LING WAS SITTING IN the office going through the kennel accounts when the intercom buzzed. She frowned and pressed the talk button. ‘Hello?’ she said hesitantly. The intercom was connected to the front gate and she wasn’t expecting any visitors. No one spoke. She looked at the clock on the wall. It was eleven o’clock at night. ‘Who is it?’ she said. She swivelled around and looked at a black and white monitor on a shelf above the filing cabinets. It had been switched off all day and she’d forgotten to turn it on after she’d locked the gates.
‘My car has broken down,’ said a man in Cantonese. ‘Can I use your telephone, please?’
‘Do you want a breakdown truck?’ Chau-ling asked, switching to Cantonese, her first language.
‘Can I use your telephone?’ the man asked again.
‘I’ll call a truck for you,’ said Chau-ling. ‘Where is your car?’
‘I’m not sure, it’s dark. I had to walk quite a way to get here. Can you open the gate, please?’
‘Just a minute,’ said Chau-ling. She stood up and switched on the closed-circuit TV. Mickey lifted his head off his paws and watched her. The screen flickered and then she saw a man in his late thirties wearing a polo shirt and jeans. He looked up at the camera and waved. He looked respectable enough, but apart from the Filipino maid in the servants’ quarters, she was alone in the compound and was reluctant to admit a stranger after dark. Chau-ling went back to the intercom. ‘Wait there, I’ll call a mechanic,’ she said. ‘He can pick you up at the gate.’
The man rubbed the back of his neck and stared directly into the camera. ‘Can I call my wife? She’ll be worried about me.’
Mickey growled softly as if sensing that something was wrong. Chau-ling’s brow creased into a frown. The man was polite enough, but she didn’t like the way he kept insisting on being allowed to use the telephone. Minnie got to her feet and walked stiff-leggedly over to join Mickey. The two Dobermanns stood looking at Chau-ling, their ears at attention. Chau-ling clicked her tongue a few times and then reached for the telephone. It wouldn’t hurt to give the local police a call. Besides, they might be able to help get the man’s car started. She put the telephone to her ear but there was no dialling tone. She looked back at the closed-circuit television monitor. The man had gone. Chau-ling clicked the receiver several times but the telephone was dead. She put down the handset and stood up.
Mickey and Minnie followed her outside. It was a hot night and the air was filled with the sound of clicking insects. Chau-ling stopped and listened. A dog in the kennels to the right of the office barked, and soon there was a cacophony of howls and yelps. ‘Come on, guys,’ she said to the Dobermanns and walked briskly to the house.
The back door was unlocked and she went into the kitchen and picked up the wall-mounted telephone. This time she did hear a dialling tone. The telephone had a long lead and she walked with it over to the refrigerator where there was a list of important numbers held on to the door with a magnet in the shape of a slice of pizza. She tapped out the number of the local police station, but before she reached the last digit the line went dead. She stared at the telephone. Mickey growled and padded over to the kitchen door.
‘What’s wrong, Mickey?’ asked Chau-ling. The door was ajar and she went over to lock it. Before she reached it she saw a man walking in the direction of the house. It wasn’t the man she’d seen on the monitor, this stranger was older and heavier and wearing a suit. He was smiling, but it was a tight, nervous smile and his eyes were hard as he walked purposefully towards her. His right arm seemed unnaturally stiff and as he got closer she realised that he was holding something pressed against his leg. A gun.
Chau-ling’s heart raced. She rushed to the door and locked it with fumbling hands. The man broke into a run and brought the gun up. She ducked as he fired and one of the panes of glass in the door exploded. A shard of glass cut her cheek but she barely noticed the pain as she scrabbled across the linoleum floor towards the hall. Mickey and Minnie were barking furiously. As she crawled into the hall, Chau-ling realised that she’d left the key in the kitchen door. All the intruder had to do was reach in through the broken window and he’d be able to let himself in. She cursed herself for her stupidity. There were no guns in the house, and the only knives were in the kitchen.
The dogs continued to bark aggressively. She turned around and called them and they trotted obedient
ly to her side. From where she was kneeling she couldn’t see the kitchen door. She leaned forward cautiously. The man had his hand through the window and was reaching towards the key. Chau-ling clicked her fingers to get Mickey’s attention. He looked at her, ears up. Both dogs were trained to obey hand signals as well as voice commands. Chau-ling pointed at the arm and made a clenched fist gesture. Immediately the Dobermann sprang into the kitchen. Minnie stayed where she was, watching Chau-ling intently.
Mickey leaped at the arm and gripped it with his teeth, his paws crashing against the door. The weight of the dog pulled the arm on to the jagged glass that was still in the frame and the man screamed. He jerked his arm back but the Dobermann hung on.
Minnie growled but Chau-ling silenced her. ‘Trousers,’ she said. The dog stopped growling but took a step towards the kitchen, keen to help her mate. Something crashed in the living room and Chau-ling whirled around. It sounded as if a window had been smashed. There were more crashing noises, then the sound of splintering wood. Someone was forcing their way into the front of the house.
Chau-ling began to tremble. A knife, she had to get a knife from the kitchen. She got to her feet, restraining Minnie by her collar. The knives were on a rack fixed to the wall to the left of the sink, in the corner furthest away from the back door, where Mickey was still holding on to the intruder for all he was worth. Through the smashed window, Chau-ling could see the man outside, his face contorted with pain and rage as he tried to free himself from the dog’s grip.
‘Come on, Minnie,’ said Chau-ling, and she half-led, half-pulled her towards the sink. She’d only taken three steps when the man used the gun in his free hand to smash another pane of glass. Chau-ling ducked as the man thrust the gun through the hole. He fired but the bullet went wide, shattering a toaster. The gun made surprisingly little noise, more of a cough than a bang. She dragged Minnie back into the hallway. As she reached the relative safety of the hall, she looked back over her shoulder. The intruder had pointed the gun down so that it was aiming at Mickey’s flank.
‘No!’ screamed Chau-ling, but it was too late. The man pulled the trigger and the gun coughed again. The bullet blew a chunk out of the dog’s side and blood sprayed across the linoleum. Chau-ling screamed hysterically. Mickey was still hanging on to the man’s arm but his back legs had stopped moving. The man fired again, there was more blood, and the Dobermann finally released its grip and slumped lifelessly to the floor. The man’s bloody hand began to search for the key again.
Chau-ling ran down the hallway, towards the front door. She was at least five paces away from it when the door to the living room opened. It was the man who’d been at the front gate, now holding a handgun. Chau-ling screamed again. Minnie growled and leaped forward. The man took a step backwards, raising his gun, but Minnie was too quick for him. She cannoned into his chest, her teeth snapping at his throat. The gun dropped from the man’s hand as he tried to push the Dobermann away. Minnie bit his ear and shook her head savagely. Blood poured down the side of his neck and over his shirt. Minnie snapped again and this time she caught his throat. Her jaws clamped shut and the man went down with the dog on top of him.
Behind her, Chau-ling heard the kitchen door crash open. She ran for the stairs. She tripped on the bottom stair and banged her elbow as she fell. Minnie lifted her head, her teeth smeared with blood. The man on the floor was still alive, but his eyes were closed. Chau-ling heard footsteps running across the linoleum and she used the banisters to pull herself up. She scrambled up the stairs. When she reached the top she looked down. Minnie was still standing over the man. The gun was to the dog’s left, lying close to the front door. Chau-ling pointed at the gun, then placed her hand over her heart. The dog reacted immediately. She dashed over to the gun, picked it up gingerly, then raced up the stairs to Chau-ling.
‘Good girl,’ said Chau-ling, grabbing the weapon and holding it in both hands. She’d never fired a gun before, never even held one, but she assumed that the man had taken the safety off and that all she’d have to do was to pull the trigger. The man in the suit came running down the hall. Chau-ling slipped her finger inside the trigger guard. Her hands were trembling.
The man in the suit jumped over his prostrate colleague and turned to go up the stairs. He stopped dead when he saw Chau-ling. His eyes narrowed as he weighed up the situation, then he fell into a crouch and aimed his gun at her chest.
Chau-ling pulled the trigger. It wasn’t like it was in the movies, she realised. There was hardly any recoil and the intruder didn’t fly backwards through the air. He didn’t even cry out, he just sagged against the banisters as if all the strength had gone from his legs, then he slowly crumpled to the floor. Chau-ling sat down, keeping her gun aimed at him. He was breathing heavily, his eyes half-closed. He turned his head to look at her. There was a small hole to the left of his tie, black in the centre, from which blood gushed, thick and treacly and not at all how Chau-ling imagined blood would look like. It wasn’t as red as it was in the movies. The man looked as if he wanted to say something, but when his mouth moved, no sound came out. He swallowed, coughed, and then his head fell forward and he went still. Chau-ling waited until she was sure that he was dead before putting down her own gun and hugging Minnie to her chest. She began to cry, huge sobs that wracked her whole body. Minnie whined and licked the tears as they ran down her cheeks.
HUTCH LAY ON THE concrete floor, curled up on his side, his head resting in the crook of his left arm. There was no position in which he was comfortable for more than a few seconds. His fingers were red raw from the day’s sanding, his ankles burned and every time he moved his legs the scabs opened. The scraps of rags he’d wrapped around the inside of the manacles were soaked in blood and he knew that if he didn’t get hold of antiseptic or clean dressings his ankles would soon be infected. Overhead the metal-bladed fan spun noisily, but it provided little relief from the unrelenting heat and humidity. The air was thick with the scent of human bodies and the stench of the open toilet. The fluorescent lights burned through his closed eyelids, making sleep impossible.
A rising feeling of panic kept threatening to overwhelm him and he forced himself to relax. He filled his mind with calming images, memories of happy times. He thought of his son, whom he’d last seen in the flesh when he was barely two years old. He thought about walking his dogs, watching the rugby, his early morning swims, anything to take his mind off the bars and the walls and the guards with shotguns. But no matter how he tried to occupy his mind, he kept returning to Billy Winter and the betrayal that had set him on course for a fifty-year sentence. It didn’t make any sense to Hutch; he could think of no reason why Winter would have gone to such trouble to set him up.
Hutch turned over, trying to find some relief from the hard floor. One of the first things he intended to buy was something to sleep on, a mat or a piece of foam rubber. And food. The food served to the prisoners was inedible. After they’d been locked in their cells in the late afternoon, they were given their second meal of the day: scraps of chicken, barely two ounces per man including the skin and bone, and the same rice soup they’d been given for breakfast. A dog wouldn’t be able to survive on the basic prison diet, let alone a human being. Some of the prisoners had paid for extra food and it was delivered after the meal: boiled rice wrapped up in newspapers, baked fish in foil, and fruit. Joshua’s friend Baz had even bought a bottle of Thai whisky.
Hutch thought about Ray Harrigan. He couldn’t understand why the Irishman hadn’t been more enthusiastic about his arrival. Maybe Harrigan had become as disillusioned with Winter as Hutch had. Hutch hadn’t been able to say much before Harrigan’s Canadian cellmate had returned, but even so, the Irishman didn’t show any interest in Hutch at all. Hutch ran the conversation back in his mind. Maybe he hadn’t expressed himself properly; maybe Harrigan hadn’t understood what Hutch had said. No, Hutch had explained that he was a friend of Winter’s and he’d told him that he was there to help him escape. There could hav
e been no misunderstanding.
Hutch had met prisoners who had become so institutionalised that they were unwilling or unable to live outside of prison, men who’d served such long terms that they knew no other home, but that didn’t apply to Harrigan as he’d been inside for less than a year. Whatever the reason for Harrigan’s lack of interest, it wasn’t that he’d gone stir crazy. He had made one good point, though: until Hutch came up with some sort of workable plan there was little point in discussing escape with the Irishman.
One of the Hong Kong Chinese began coughing on the other side of the cell. It was a throaty cough that sounded like the onset of something serious. Disease was rampant throughout the prison, where the lack of ventilation and sanitation facilitated the spread of germs. Hutch had seen at least a dozen men who were little more than walking skeletons, victims of some wasting disease that could well have been AIDS, and he’d seen rashes and skin infections on the majority of prisoners. His own groin itched and he rubbed it. He’d been wearing the same clothing for more than a week. That was something else that he planned to buy as soon as possible. Joshua had told him that he’d have to buy himself a brown T-shirt and shorts for court appearances. The prisoners were allowed to wear whatever they wanted while in the prison, so long as the shirts had short sleeves and the trousers ended above the knee, but they had to be in uniform when they were in court. The guards would provide a uniform if Hutch didn’t have his own, but the communal ones were old and worn and were never washed. Hutch balked at the thought of having to pay for his own prison uniform, but he hated even more the thought of wearing clothes that had been handed from prisoner to prisoner.
The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 27