The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  The door opened before he reached it. Chau-ling seemed surprised to see him, worried even. ‘Father?’ she said.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ Tsang asked with a slight shrug. ‘Can I not even visit my own daughter now?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ she said ‘I just wasn’t expecting you, that’s all.’

  She walked to meet him, but there was no physical contact. Tsang was not a man who chose to display affection in public. In private, behind closed doors, he would hold his daughter, but he had never done so in front of others, as if it were a sign of weakness. He had always been that way, even when she was a child, and Chau-ling no longer resented it. She knew that her father loved her and she didn’t need a kiss or a hug to prove it. Ricky Lim appeared at the door and Tsang noted his presence with a curt nod. Tsang would have preferred that it had been Lim who had opened the door and not his daughter, but he would not admonish the bodyguard until they were alone. In Tsang’s mind, rebukes and affection were both best handled in private.

  ‘I must speak to you, daughter,’ said Tsang.

  ‘It’s about the ticket, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Inside,’ said Tsang. ‘I am an old man and must sit down.’

  Chau-ling snorted softly. ‘You will outlive us all, Father,’ she said, and led him into the house. The man in the leather jacket did not cross the threshold but stood with his back to the door, his arms swinging freely by his sides.

  Chau-ling took Tsang into the living room. He looked around and nodded slowly. ‘An unusual mix of Chinese and gweilo taste,’ he said. ‘Neither one nor the other.’ There were several wooden statues, mainly Buddhas, that Tsang thought must be at least a hundred years old, and there was a jade dragon on a bookshelf that he would have liked to have taken a closer look at if his daughter hadn’t been standing there assessing his every move.

  ‘Warren likes Chinese things,’ said Chau-ling, ignoring the implied criticism.

  Tsang looked around for somewhere to sit. The chairs and sofas all had huge cushions, bigger than pillows, and they looked as if they could swallow a person whole. Tsang shuddered. As if sensing his thoughts, his daughter pulled a wooden straight-backed chair away from the dining table and brought it over to the sofa. Tsang visibly relaxed. He sat down, his back as rigid as that of the chair. Warren’s Filipino maid appeared from the kitchen and looked at Chau-ling expectantly.

  ‘Can I offer you tea, Father?’ Chau-ling asked.

  ‘Tea would be nice. Thank you.’

  Chau-ling asked the maid to prepare a pot of jasmine tea and the girl disappeared back into the kitchen. Ricky Lim stayed in the hallway, just out of earshot.

  ‘It does well, this business?’ Tsang asked.

  ‘It gets better every year,’ said Chau-ling. ‘Dogs are status symbols, but people here are too busy to train them so Warren does it for them. And he sorts out their psychological problems, too.’

  ‘Dogs have psychological problems?’ said Tsang in disbelief.

  ‘Of course. They get jealous, they feel rejection, they hate being cooped up in tower blocks. They’re just like people.’

  ‘Dogs are nothing like people,’ said Tsang dismissively. ‘Dogs are dogs. People are people. They should be treated as such. I could never understand why gweilos have such love for dogs.’

  ‘It isn’t the gweilos, Father. Most of our customers are Chinese. Most of our boarders come from Chinese homes.’

  ‘Boarders?’ said Tsang, confused.

  ‘When their owners go away, they leave their dogs here,’ Chau-ling explained patiently. ‘Like a hotel.’

  Tsang raised his eyebrows in amazement. ‘A hotel for dogs?’ He shook his head, almost sadly.

  ‘Anyway, you haven’t come all the way out here to talk about Warren’s business, have you?’

  Tsang didn’t reply. He looked around the large room and suddenly realised that there were two large dogs sitting under a table, watching him intently. ‘They won’t bite, will they?’ he asked.

  ‘Only if I tell them to,’ said his daughter mischievously. ‘I wasn’t going to go without telling you first.’

  ‘Telling me?’ said Tsang coldly. ‘So, now you tell me, do you? I am no longer consulted, I am merely a servant to be told how things are?’

  Chau-ling sighed in exasperation. ‘That’s not what I meant at all,’ she said. ‘I meant that I wasn’t going to go without talking to you first.’

  ‘That is nothing more than you promised me,’ said Tsang.

  The maid returned, carrying a tray on which stood a blue and white teapot and two cups. She put the tray down on a small table by Chau-ling’s side, poured tea into both cups, then left them alone once more.

  ‘Father, it is an open ticket. I bought it to save time. I wasn’t going back on my promise. Anyway, I doubt that Ricky would let me get on a plane, would he?’

  ‘Not if he wanted to continue working for me,’ said Tsang.

  ‘There you are, then,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand as if she’d proved a complicated mathematical equation.

  She handed him a cup of jasmine tea. He sniffed it cautiously and then sipped it.

  ‘Is it okay?’ she asked.

  ‘It is drinkable,’ he said, begrudgingly. ‘Filipinos cannot make tea.’

  Chau-ling drank from her own cup and then put it back down on the tray. ‘I would have spoken to you first, Father.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tsang. He sipped his tea again, more enthusiastically this time, then put his cup down next to Chau-ling’s, so close that they were touching. ‘I have a problem,’ he said. Chau-ling waited for him to continue. Tsang looked around the room again, but eventually his eyes settled on his daughter. ‘I promised you I would make inquiries, and I have done. But I am loath to tell you what I have found.’

  ‘But you promised that you would.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We had a deal.’

  Tsang sighed mournfully. ‘Why else do you think I am here, wilful daughter?’ He clasped his hands together in his lap and looked at her with sad eyes. ‘I want you to promise me that you won’t go back to Thailand.’

  Chau-ling leaned forward, her eyes wide. ‘What did you find out?’ she asked.

  Tsang shook his head. ‘Promise me,’ he said.

  Chau-ling closed her eyes and shuddered as if there were a draught. ‘I can’t,’ she said, her eyes still closed.

  ‘You must.’

  ‘I love him, Father.’ She opened her eyes. Tsang expected to see tears but there were none. ‘I love him,’ she repeated.

  Tsang stared at her, his face like stone. He knew there was nothing he could say to convince her of her folly, nothing he could do to change her mind. Under other circumstances he would admire her stubbornness. ‘Thailand is a dangerous place,’ he said. ‘More dangerous even than China. If you go, you go with protection.’

  Chau-ling nodded eagerly. ‘Agreed,’ she said.

  Tsang took a deep breath and let it out slowly through pursed lips. ‘The man Bird, the man who hired the men who came to kill you, is working for another man. A gweilo. His name is Billy Winter. Do you know of this man?’

  Chau-ling shook her head.

  ‘He is from London originally. He is also in the drug trade. He is a dangerous man.’

  ‘And he wants to hurt Warren?’

  ‘No, it was you he wanted to hurt. He is going to get your friend out of the prison.’

  Chau-ling sat stunned, her mouth open in amazement.

  ‘This man Bird is recruiting a number of men in Bangkok. Soon, within the next few weeks, they intend to rescue your friend.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Chau-ling. ‘That doesn’t make any sense at all.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Tsang. Lee had returned to his office just two days after their initial meeting, bringing information with him like a cat offering a dead mouse to its owner. Lee had sweated as he’d talked, sweated like a man in a sauna. Tsang had listened, t
hen thanked him and shown him to the door. Lee had barely left the building before Tsang had given the order for him to be killed. There could be no forgiveness, not for one who had helped the men who had come so close to killing Tsang’s only child.

  ‘But why would Warren refuse to let me help him? Why wouldn’t he take Khun Kriengsak’s advice? Surely he’d try the legal channels before trying to escape?’

  ‘I do not know how this gweilo’s mind works,’ said Tsang dismissively.

  ‘Father, there’s something wrong. I know that Warren wouldn’t get involved with drug smugglers.’

  ‘Nevertheless, this Winter and Bird are planning to rescue him. Of that there is no doubt. And they wanted to kill you. Do not forget that, daughter.’ Chau-ling slumped back in the sofa. ‘You can see why I am troubled,’ said Tsang.

  ‘I have to go back to Bangkok,’ said Chau-ling.

  Tsang nodded slowly, his lips set into a narrow line. ‘I know,’ he said.

  BREAKFAST ARRIVED SHORTLY AFTER the cries of ‘kao, kao’ echoed up from downstairs. Each prisoner was given a piece of smoked fish a couple of inches long and a bowl of rice soup. There was a mosquito floating in Hutch’s bowl. He handed it to the Hong Kong Chinese sitting next to him, along with the foul-smelling fish. Hutch had several pieces of chicken and some fruit in his locker and was expecting another delivery of food later in the day. It had been more than a week since he’d eaten the prison food and his stomach was all the better for it.

  Hutch went over to sit down next to Matt. The American was chewing his fish and he grimaced at Hutch. His face was red and blotchy in places and the skin on his legs was dry and flaking. Hutch figured the American was suffering from some sort of fungal infection and he’d asked the trustys to bring in some medicine to treat it but they had yet to deliver.

  ‘Matt, I need your help,’ said Hutch.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Hutch put his head closer to the American’s. He didn’t want to be overheard by the other prisoners who were collecting their washing gear and waiting for the cell door to be unlocked. ‘I want you to swop cells with a friend of mine.’

  The American grinned. ‘What, is my body odour getting too much for you?’

  ‘I’m serious, Matt.’

  ‘Where’s the other cell?’

  ‘It’s one of the private ones on the other side of the block.’

  ‘And you’ll fix it with the guards?’

  Hutch pulled a face. ‘Not exactly.’

  Matt swallowed the remainder of his dried fish. ‘What are you up to?’ he asked.

  Hutch took a deep breath. Matt’s co-operation was essential if his plan was to work. ‘I want my friend to go to court instead of you. I want him to take your place.’

  Matt’s eyes widened with disbelief. ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘It’s only a formality. Every twelve days you have to appear before a judge so that the cops can keep you here.’

  ‘I don’t know, Warren . . .’

  ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

  ‘You’ve done enough for me already.’ He pointed at his legs. ‘You got the chains off for me and I don’t know what I’d have done without the money you put through. But I don’t want to get into trouble.’

  Hutch fought the urge to laugh. The American had been caught with five kilos of heroin in his luggage and was facing a minimum fifty-year sentence.

  Matt guessed what he was thinking. ‘I know, I know, I’m in a shitful of trouble already.’

  ‘Your lawyer’s not up to much, is he?’ asked Hutch.

  The American snorted dismissively. ‘He’s worse than useless.’

  ‘Okay, so here’s what I’ll do. I’ll get more money paid into your account and I’ll get you a lawyer. The guy who got our chains off seems to know what he’s doing. I’ll fix it so that he takes your case.’

  Matt looked at Hutch for several seconds, his eyes narrowed. ‘What are you up to? This isn’t just about getting your friend out of prison for a few hours, is it? You’re going to escape, aren’t you?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you anything, Matt.’

  ‘But if I help you escape and they find out . . .’

  ‘What? What can they do to you?’

  ‘They could beat the shit out of me for a start.’

  ‘I doubt it. Besides, you can tell them I forced you to do it. Tell them I threatened you, tell them I pulled a knife on you. Tell them anything.’

  The American frowned as he considered Hutch’s offer. ‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘Okay, I’ll do it. When?’

  ‘Soon,’ said Hutch. He patted the American on the shoulder. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Just make sure you put plenty of money in my account,’ said Matt.

  Pipop appeared at their cell door with a uniformed guard. The guard opened it and the prisoners spilled out, rushing to the bathing area. Joshua fell into step beside Hutch as they headed down the stairs to the courtyard. ‘Everything okay?’ the Nigerian asked.

  ‘So far,’ said Hutch.

  PETER BURDEN AND BART Lucarelli were already seated with clipboards on their knees when Hal Austin walked into the tent. ‘The early worms . . .’ said Austin with a grin as he dropped down on to a metal and canvas stool. His shirt was soaked with sweat and his black skin was glistening. ‘This heat is something, isn’t it?’

  ‘Reminds me of home,’ said Burden.

  ‘Home?’ repeated Austin, fanning himself with his metal clipboard.

  ‘Baltimore,’ said Burden. ‘This is nothing compared with a Baltimore summer, I tell you. Where’s Roger?’

  ‘Here,’ said Roger Warner, stooping so as not to bang his head on the metal spar that ran across the top of the entrance to the tent.

  Austin looked around the tent. Apart from the four stools and a large blackboard, it was empty. He looked at his wristwatch. It was just after nine a.m. ‘Who’s taking the briefing?’ he asked.

  Burden shrugged. ‘Guy’s name is Gregory. Jake Gregory.’

  ‘No rank?’ frowned Austin.

  ‘No rank, no job description,’ replied Burden, ‘but when he says jump, we ask how high.’

  ‘So what is he, a spook?’ asked Warner, clicking a stainless-steel ballpoint pen.

  ‘No, son, I’m not a spook,’ said a clipped voice from the entrance to the tent. A squat, heavy-set man in green fatigues was standing there, watching them with amused eyes. He was in his mid-fifties, his hair greying and close cropped, his face almost square, with fleshy jowls that glistened with sweat as if he wasn’t used to the humidity. Under his right arm he carried a long cardboard tube; in his left he had a can of Diet Coke. Gregory stepped into the tent and pulled the green canvas flap closed behind him. ‘You got the name right, though.’ He walked over to the blackboard and took a map from the tube. ‘Though I’d as soon as you didn’t remember who I am, just what I’m about to tell you.’ He used large bulldog clips to attach the map to the blackboard, revealing large damp patches under his arms as he stretched upwards. He had to stand on tiptoe to reach the top of the blackboard. Warner grinned across at Austin. The newcomer definitely wasn’t army: even the deskbound warriors of the Pentagon would never have allowed themselves to get so out of condition.

  Gregory turned to face them and put his hands on his hips. His head swivelled on his thick neck as he spoke in a deep, gravelly voice. ‘This is a DEA operation, sanctioned at the highest level. And that, gentlemen, means the office of the President of the United States.’ He looked at their faces one by one as if stressing the importance of what he was saying. ‘Having said that, you won’t be wearing any medals as a result of what we’re doing here. You go in, you do the job, and then you go home. If you do your job right, no one will even know you were here. The details of the mission won’t be appearing on your record, but you will not be forgotten, I can assure you of that. Do what’s expected of you, and you’ll be winning Brownie points that’ll do more for you than medals ever can. Are we communicating, g
entlemen?’

  Austin and the rest nodded.

  Gregory tapped the map with the back of his right hand. ‘The Golden Triangle,’ he said. ‘Some seventy per cent of all the heroin sold in the West comes from here. Your target is the headquarters of a drug baron located somewhere in this area.’ He tapped the map again. Austin frowned as he studied the map. The area covered by Gregory’s hand was where Burma, Thailand and Laos met, and appeared to be nothing but rainforest. ‘This particular drug baron controls thousands of acres of poppy plants in the Triangle. The Thais and the Burmese have been trying for years to apprehend him, but with no success. The DEA has lost half a dozen operatives trying to infiltrate the organisation and we’re not prepared to throw away any more good men. That, gentlemen, is where you come in. We have obtained the consent of the Burmese authorities to launch a military offensive against the target, a surgical strike, if you like.’ Gregory took a swig from his can of Diet Coke. ‘The information we have so far leads us to believe that the target is in an area of rainforest in Burma some fifty miles over the Thai border,’ Gregory continued. ‘Unfortunately that information could well be out of date already. The drug baron is constantly on the move, rarely maintaining the same headquarters for more than a couple of weeks. That’s why he’s been impossible to pin down in the past.’ He grinned. ‘But within the next few days, that’s all going to change. We’re going to know exactly where he is. And I mean exactly.’ He wiped his forehead with his sleeve before continuing.

  ‘A beacon is about to be activated at the target, transmitting on a frequency which we will be monitoring through a surveillance satellite by the National Imagery Office. Once activated, we will have the co-ordinates of the target to within ten feet.’

  Burden looked across at Austin again and smiled tightly. Austin nodded. With a beacon at the target they could fly blindfolded.

  ‘Each of your machines will be equipped with eight Hellfire anti-armour missiles,’ said Gregory. ‘Six will be standard lock-on after launch guidance-coded to laser designators, but two will be modified to home in on the transmitter beacon.’