‘It wasn’t our fault,’ said Bird. ‘He fired first. You saw what he did. He killed one of our men.’
‘It looked to me like you killed him, Bird.’
Bird walked over to Hutch, his shoulders hunched and his arms at his side like a gunfighter preparing to draw. He stood so close that Hutch could smell his garlic-tainted breath. ‘He was dying. He’d have died if we’d tried to move him. If we’d left him, the police might have got to him.’ He glared at Hutch as if daring him to argue. Hutch nodded slowly, but he wasn’t admitting defeat, only that Bird had a point. Bird stared at him for several seconds, then he went over to a battered red Nissan pick-up truck and took a petrol can out of the back. Next to the truck were two wooden pallets and crates of leafy green vegetables.
Bird unscrewed the top off the can and began pouring it over the motorcycles. ‘Anyway, it’s too late to argue about it now,’ he said dismissively. ‘We got you out, that’s all that matters.’
Hutch took a deep breath. Bird was right. There was nothing he could say that would change what had happened.
Harrigan came over, holding his handcuffed arms out to Hutch. ‘Can you get these things off me?’ he whined.
‘I’ll have to do it later,’ said Hutch. ‘I gave the picks to Joshua.’
‘What the fuck for?’ asked Harrigan.
‘Because he saved my life, that’s why,’ said Hutch. ‘What do we do now, Bird?’
Bird had emptied the can over the bikes. He tossed it on to the pile and looked around to check that he hadn’t forgotten anything. ‘The truck,’ he said. Hutch looked at the Nissan and frowned. Anticipating his objections, Bird waved at the crates. ‘The two of you lie down and we’ll cover you up.’
‘For how long?’ asked Hutch.
‘An hour. We’ve got a safe house fixed up about forty miles outside Bangkok. That’s where we’ll meet Billy.’
Hutch nodded. ‘Come on,’ he said to Harrigan. The two of them walked over to the pick-up truck and lay face down in the back. Two of the men placed the pallets over them. The bases had been cut away so that the slats of wood were an inch or so above their backs. The men began stacking the crates on the pallets. It was soon dark and claustrophobic. Bits of soil fell down on them. It was like being buried alive, Hutch realised. He fought back the feelings of panic. He forced himself to breathe slowly and kept telling himself it would only be for an hour or so. There was a loud whooshing sound followed by a series of explosions as the motorcycle tanks ignited. Bird climbed into the cab of the pick-up truck and started the engine.
TIM CARVER TAPPED OUT the number of Jake Gregory’s satellite phone. Carver was in the DEA’s Secure Communications Room and he was alone. One of the analysts had been on the line to the agency’s Fort Lauderdale office in Florida and Carver had had to wait until he’d finished. There was a series of clicks, then a long pause followed by more clicks. Eventually there was a ringing tone. It rang out for a full minute before the phone was answered. It wasn’t Gregory. Carver explained who he was and where he was calling from.
‘He’s briefing the helicopter crews,’ said the voice at the other end of the line. The line broke up and Carver couldn’t hear what else the man said.
‘I didn’t catch that,’ said Carver.
‘He’s briefing the Apache crews, he’ll be back in about half an hour.’
Carver sat bolt upright as if he’d been electrocuted. ‘Can you get him to call me?’ he said. ‘As soon as he’s finished.’
‘Affirmative,’ said the voice. The line went dead. Carver sat staring at the communications console. Something didn’t make sense.
IT WAS STIFLINGLY HOT lying under the crates, the metal of the pick-up truck as hot as a griddle against Hutch’s chest and the front of his legs. Something small with lots of legs fell on to his hair and he shook his head to the side to throw it off. He felt as if he’d been lying in the truck for hours but it was too dark to see his watch so he had no idea how much time had truly passed.
They’d driven over rough ground for several miles, dirt tracks probably, and then they’d driven fast and straight for a long time, which Hutch reckoned was probably the expressway, heading north. They’d been stuck in a traffic jam for a long time, and at one point he’d heard Thai voices, brusque with authority, and Bird’s muffled voice replying. The traffic had picked up speed after that and the air around them had become progressively hotter and less breathable.
‘I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to stand this,’ said Harrigan. ‘My throat’s burning up.’
‘It can’t be much longer,’ said Hutch.
For a while the only sound was the growl of the Nissan’s diesel engine and the ragged breathing of the two men. ‘I’m sorry about what I said, about the picks,’ said Harrigan.
‘No problem,’ said Hutch.
‘I was scared.’
‘So was I. Forget it.’
‘It was messy back there, wasn’t it?’
Hutch turned his head towards Harrigan. He could just about make out the shape of the man’s head. ‘You’ve seen people die before, haven’t you? You were in the IRA, right?’
There was a soft laugh, then a sniff. ‘The IRA isn’t just about killing people, Hutch. It’s an entire organisation. There are active service units that carry out the dirty jobs, but they’re the minority. I never saw anyone hurt, much less killed.’
Hutch slid his arms up so that he could rest his head on them. ‘Yeah, it was messy. It wasn’t supposed to be, but it was.’
‘Where did you learn to pick locks?’
Hutch smiled in the darkness. ‘I was a locksmith in another life. I was one of the guys you’d call if you forgot your keys.’
‘And how did you get involved in this?’
‘It’s a long story. A very long, very sad story.’
‘They’re paying you?’
‘Maybe. But that’s not why I’m doing it.’
‘What then?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Sure.’
‘Billy Winter’s blackmailing me. If I don’t get you out, I go back to prison in the UK.’
‘You were in prison?’ said Harrigan, surprised.
‘I did four years,’ said Hutch. ‘And I had another twenty-one to do before I got out.’
‘You escaped?’
‘Three times. But I only got clean away the last time.’
‘From where?’
‘Parkhurst. On the Isle of Wight. Some of your mob were there.’
‘What did you do, Hutch?’
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘You got twenty-five years in Parkhurst for nothing?’
Hutch snorted. ‘Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?’
The truck turned to the left, braked hard, then bumped over some rough ground and came to a halt. ‘Sounds like we’ve arrived,’ said Hutch. There was a grating, metallic noise and the truck edged forward a few feet. The grating noise was repeated, though this time it had a hollower ring to it. Hutch guessed they had driven inside a building. He heard the truck doors open and then the crates were bundled off. Fluorescent light streamed in and the two men covered their eyes.
Hutch rolled over and sat up. Bird was standing next to the truck, grinning. ‘Did you hear them at the checkpoint?’ he said.
‘The police?’ asked Hutch.
‘Yeah. They were searching all the vehicles on the expressway. They didn’t even think of checking the back.’
Harrigan sat up, grunting with the effort. ‘Where’s Billy?’ he asked.
Bird held up a mobile phone. ‘I’ll call him now. He wanted to stay out of the way until we were sure you’re safe.’
‘Yeah, that’s Billy all right,’ said Hutch. ‘He was only ever caught with the goods once, and he swore it would be the last time.’ He gestured at Harrigan’s handcuffs. ‘Have you got a file or something I can use to cut the cuffs?’
Bird pointed at a workbench and a rack of tools. �
�Help yourself,’ he said.
BILLY WINTER PUSHED HIS sunglasses up on the top of his head and sat up. He reached for the ringing mobile phone on the table by his lounger and looked at his wristwatch. Bang on time. ‘Yeah?’ he said.
‘We’re here,’ said Bird.
‘Any problems?’ asked Winter.
‘Nothing major. We lost one man.’
‘Not one of mine?’
Bird’s voice was cold. ‘No, Billy. One of mine.’
Winter pulled a face as he realised he’d said the wrong thing. ‘Sorry, Bird. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll be there in an hour. What’s the traffic like?’
‘Locked solid both ways. You won’t get here in an hour, Billy. It’ll take at least two. Three maybe.’
‘How are the guys?’
‘They’re okay. Harrigan doesn’t look too good, but we’ll clean him up before you get here.’
‘Good man. Thanks, Bird. And well done.’
Winter cut the connection and put the phone back on the table. A young poolboy in a gleaming white uniform with gold buttons came over with a brandy and Coke on a tray. Winter beamed up at him. It was early, they were still serving breakfast in the coffee shop, but Winter felt that he’d earned a celebratory drink. The poolboy put the condensation-beaded glass down on the table and handed the bill to Winter. Winter signed it with a flourish. ‘It don’t get much better than this, do it?’ he said, handing it back.
THEY WERE IN A two-storey house with rough wooden floors and whitewashed walls. There was a bare minimum of furniture and nothing of a personal nature, except for a poster of the King of Thailand pinned to one of the living-room walls. Hutch sat on a cheap plastic sofa and rested his feet on a square coffee table while Harrigan slumped into an armchair. The blinds were drawn and the lights were on, and an air-conditioner set into the wall buzzed and whirred.
Bird came in and threw Hutch a can of lager. ‘Thanks,’ said Hutch. Bird said nothing and turned away. Hutch realised something was wrong. He suddenly knew what it was: Thais didn’t like feet on furniture, or feet being used to point. He slid the offending limbs off the table and popped open the can of lager, draining half of it in several thirsty gulps.
‘There’s a bathroom upstairs if you want to shower,’ said Bird.
‘I’m okay,’ said Hutch.
‘It’ll be your last chance for a while,’ said Bird. ‘There aren’t many bathrooms where we’re going.’
Hutch shrugged and began to work away with the hacksaw at the handcuffs on his right wrist. It would take time, but he’d get through them eventually.
Harrigan held up his chained hands. ‘How about taking these off for me?’ he asked.
Bird pulled his gun from out of his belt and pointed it at Harrigan. ‘I could try shooting them off,’ he said, sighting along the barrel.
Harrigan jumped out of his chair. ‘Jesus Christ, Bird, stop fucking around!’ he yelled. He kept moving, skipping around the room like a startled rabbit.
Bird laughed throatily. ‘English humour,’ he said, and put the gun away.
Harrigan stopped moving and glared at Bird. ‘I’m Irish,’ he hissed. ‘And either way, it’s not fucking well funny.’
Bird pulled a face. He took a pair of bolt-cutters from his back pocket. ‘I’ll use these instead,’ he said. ‘Unless you don’t think they’re funny enough.’
Harrigan held his arms out. ‘Ha, ha, bloody ha,’ he said.
Bird cut one of the links and then gave him a metal file.
Harrigan went over to Hutch and watched him sawing through the metal shackle. ‘Can’t you pick them?’ Harrigan asked.
Hutch didn’t look up. ‘If I had the picks, maybe. But this’ll be quicker. The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll finish.’
Harrigan sighed and sat down on the table. He began to file the handcuff on his left wrist.
THE RECEPTIONIST BUZZED THROUGH and told Tim Carver he had a visitor: Tsang Chau-ling. Carver ran his hand through his hair and groaned. He walked down two flights of stairs rather than taking the elevator to give himself time to think. Chau-ling was waiting for him in the reception area. Ricky Lim was also there but he didn’t acknowledge the DEA agent.
‘Have you seen the TV?’ she said, jabbing at him with an accusing finger. He looked at her blankly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was escaping?’ she said.
‘Not here,’ he said. He turned and walked to the elevator. Chau-ling followed him but Ricky Lim stayed where he was. They rode up together in silence. Carver waited until Chau-ling was seated and the door was closed before speaking. ‘I can’t tell you everything, Miss Tsang,’ he said, sitting down and switching off his desktop computer.
‘Everything? You haven’t told me anything.’
‘You have no right—-’
‘I have a right to know,’ she interrupted. ‘Did you know that people were going to die?’
‘That wasn’t the plan,’ said Carver.
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Carver. Chau-ling glared at him. ‘Honest to God, I have no idea where he is.’
‘Did the authorities know about the escape in advance?’
Carver shook his head. ‘Do you want a coffee or something?’
Chau-ling ignored his offer. ‘So I guess if they were to find out that the DEA was involved, they’d be pretty upset, right?’
Carver tapped a cigarette out of his Marlboro pack and slid it between his lips. He reached for his Zippo.
‘I’d rather you didn’t smoke,’ said Chau-ling. She smiled without warmth.
Carver studied her for several seconds before putting the cigarette back into the red and white pack. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked.
‘I want to know what it is that Warren’s involved in.’
Carver rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s better you don’t know,’ he said.
‘You sound like my father.’
Carver smiled and leaned back in his chair. ‘Maybe your father’s right.’
Chau-ling folded her arms across her chest. She tapped the fingers of her right hand against her forearm impatiently. ‘I want to know what Warren’s got himself into,’ she said quietly. ‘And if you don’t tell me, Mr Carver, then I’m going to go to the Thai police and tell them what I do know.’
‘What good do you think that’ll do?’ asked Carver.
‘For a start, I think it’ll make your life very difficult. Innocent people died, and you’re responsible. Perhaps you’d like to go through what Warren went through and spend some time behind bars yourself. You know how the Thais work – you’d stay in prison until you can prove that you’re not guilty. Not a particularly pleasant experience. And probably the end of your career.’ She smiled brightly. ‘So, do you tell me what’s going on, or do I go and talk to the police?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t do that, Miss Tsang.’
‘There’s a very easy way for you to stop me. Just tell me what I want to know.’
‘You won’t like it.’
‘Try me.’
Carver began to flick the lid of his Zippo, but he kept his eyes on Chau-ling. ‘For a start, his name’s not Warren Hastings.’
THE SHACKLE FELL APART and dropped to the floor. Harrigan looked up. ‘How did you manage to do that so quickly?’ he asked.
‘You’ve just got to keep at it,’ said Hutch, picking up the pieces of the handcuffs and putting them on the coffee table. Harrigan had been working his file back and forth at a snail’s pace and Hutch could tell that he’d be at it all day, so he’d taken over and finished the job for him. Harrigan massaged his wrists. ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Hutch.
Harrigan shrugged dismissively. ‘I just want to get home, then I’ll be okay.’
‘It’s going to be a while yet,’ said Hutch.
‘I know, I know.’
They heard a car pull up outside. Hutch looked across at Bird who was cleaning his handgun. ‘It’ll be Billy,’ said Bird, reassembling th
e gun and slotting in the magazine. He stood up and went out into the hall and opened the front door.
Hutch heard voices, then Billy Winter burst into the room, a cigar in one hand, a large wicker basket in the other. He was wearing a cream-coloured linen suit and brown shoes with spats. ‘You did it!’ he said. ‘You deserve a bloody medal, Hutch!’ Winter handed the basket to Bird and went over to Harrigan. ‘Ray, it’s good to see you again. I told you we’d get you out, didn’t I?’ He reached out his hand and the two men shook, though there was a definite lack of enthusiasm on Harrigan’s part. Hutch went back to the sofa and sat down. ‘A week at most and you’ll be back in Grafton Street, drinking Guinness and patting some young Irish wench on the arse,’ continued Winter, unfazed by Harrigan’s silence. He turned to face Hutch and nodded appreciatively. ‘It worked like a dream, didn’t it? A bloody dream.’
‘People died, Billy,’ said Hutch coldly.
‘Right, they did, that’s right,’ said Winter. ‘But you got out and frankly that’s all that matters to me.’ He grinned at Hutch. ‘You know what I wanted when I got out? The first thing I wanted?’
‘A hooker?’ asked Hutch.
Winter’s grin widened. ‘Okay, the second thing I wanted?’ He did a soft-shoe shuffle over to the basket which Bird had put on the coffee table. It was tied up with a big red bow which Winter undid with a flourish. ‘A good feed,’ he said, and lifted the lid. It was a hamper, packed with food. ‘From the Oriental Hotel,’ he said. ‘Nothing but the best for my boys.’ He took out a whole roast chicken wrapped in plastic, a loaf of French bread, and an earthenware pot. ‘Fresh bread, chicken, foie gras. There’s smoked salmon in there somewhere.’ He put them on the table and pulled out a bottle. ‘And bubbly. Dom Perignon. Vintage. Have you any idea how much this stuff costs in Thailand?’
‘Billy, I’m not one of your boys,’ said Hutch, refusing to be drawn into the celebration.
The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 37