All three of them saw the floating log at the same time, but only Bird had time to shout a warning before the long-tailed boat slammed into it. Hutch grabbed at his seat but the shock of the impact tore his fingers from the wood and he felt himself start to fall. The boat toppled to the right as it soared through the air. Hutch pitched into the air, his arms flailing, and something banged into his leg, hard. He saw Winter fall backwards, his arms going up to protect his head, and then Hutch hit the water and went under. He managed to hold his breath at the last minute but water still forced its way into his nose and he felt a searing pain in his forehead. He kept his eyes closed and tried to stay under water because the propeller would be flailing somewhere overhead but he felt his lungs start to burn and so he kicked for the surface.
He coughed and spat and started to tread water. The long-tailed boat was on its side, its prop sticking out of the water and the propeller screaming like a tortured animal. The boatman clung to the side of the boat, his legs in the river. The boat remained fixed in the centre of the searchlight beam and harsh Thai commands were screamed over the loudspeaker. Hutch’s stomach began to cramp with the effort of keeping his legs moving. His training shoes had filled with water and his wet clothes were starting to drag him down. He looked around frantically, kicking hard to try to raise himself out of the water. He saw two dark shapes off to his left. Winter and Bird. Then another shape, coughing and spluttering. Harrigan. Hutch began to swim towards them. He tried the crawl but his wet shirt was too much of a drag so he switched to breast stroke.
The shore was only fifty yards away and Hutch was a good swimmer, so he was confident that even in the fast-flowing river he’d have no problems making it to the bank. His main worry was the army launch. The soldiers must surely have realised that there was only one man with the capsized boat.
Hutch caught up with Winter and the rest. Winter was panting and Bird was helping to keep Harrigan afloat. Winter forced a grin when he saw Hutch. ‘Good job I wasn’t wearing the suit, hey?’ he said. A wave sloshed over his face and he shook his wet hair out of his eyes.
‘Can you make it?’ asked Hutch.
‘Yeah,’ said Winter, ‘I think so.’ His breast stroke was passable, Hutch could see, and he didn’t appear to be panicking. So long as Winter kept his head he’d be okay.
‘Where’s Nung?’
‘On his way to shore. Swims like a fucking fish.’
‘Okay. You go ahead, I’ll help Bird with Ray.’ Winter nodded and concentrated on swimming. Hutch swam over to the two men. Harrigan was on his back, making no attempt to swim, while Bird dragged him by the collar. Harrigan had his eyes closed and was breathing through his nose, snorting like a frightened horse. There was blood on his forehead and a gash on his cheek.
Hutch got on the other side of Harrigan. He grabbed him around the neck and started scissor-kicking. Together they made their way towards the bank, fighting the current all the way. Hutch had to stay low in the water to support Harrigan, so he couldn’t see where the launch was, but he could hear the dull throb of its engines. Water splashed over Harrigan’s face and he began to choke. Hutch tightened his grip on the man’s neck and kicked harder. Hutch’s kicks were more efficient than Bird’s and he realised he’d make better progress on his own.
‘Bird, you look after yourself,’ Hutch said. ‘I can handle him.’
Bird immediately let go of the Irishman and began to breast stroke towards the bank, which was now only fifty feet away. Hutch took a quick backwards look. Winter was already clambering out of the water.
‘Soon be there, Ray,’ Hutch said encouragingly. ‘Try to relax.’ To Hutch’s surprise, Harrigan did as he was told and lay limply in the water. The searchlight beam flashed across them but it didn’t return and when Hutch finally felt the slippery riverbed under his feet the bank was in darkness.
Hutch struggled to his feet, supporting Harrigan under his arms. Bird slithered across the mud and together they pulled the Irishman into the undergrowth. All three men lay on their backs, gasping for breath. In the distance they heard the rattle of gunfire but no bullets came their way. Harrigan rolled on to his front and began to vomit. Hutch patted him on the back. He heard the rustle of bushes being pushed apart and a figure stumbled towards them. Hutch lifted his foot defensively, ready to lash out, but he realised it was Winter.
‘Well done, old lad,’ Winter whispered. He touched Bird lightly on the shoulder. ‘You okay, Bird?’
Bird opened his eyes. ‘Right as rain,’ he said. He grinned. ‘English humour, right?’
‘Almost,’ said Winter. He knelt down beside Harrigan, who was still spewing up yellowish liquid. ‘That’s it, Ray. Better out than in.’
‘How did they miss us?’ asked Bird. ‘They had us right in their sights.’
‘Just be thankful they did,’ said Winter.
Hutch got to his feet, his wet clothes sticking like a second skin. ‘Is Nung here?’
Winter gestured with his thumb. ‘This way. He’s not a happy bunny. We’re about half a mile away from where we’re supposed to be and we’re going to have to hurry.’
CHAU-LING WAS SITTING WITH her head in her hands when Colonel Suphat appeared at the entrance to the tent. He seemed agitated and went over to the filing cabinet and poured himself a large measure of whisky without asking if anyone else wanted a drink. Tim Carver stood up. He dropped the butt of his cigarette on to the floor and ground it out with his foot as he waited for the soldier to speak.
‘I am afraid it is a case of good news and bad news, Miss Tsang,’ he said slowly, his French accent less pronounced than before.
Chau-ling said nothing. She remained seated and looked up at the Colonel, expectantly. Ricky Lim stood behind her, his arms folded and his face impassive. He had barely moved during the five hours that they’d been in the tent.
‘There was an attempt made to cross the river tonight,’ said the Colonel. ‘So your information was correct. We have apprehended the boatman and the vessel they used.’ He paused, swirling the whisky around his glass and staring at it as if hoping to find some relief from the embarrassment he was clearly feeling. ‘Unfortunately, the men on board managed to elude our launch. They have crossed into Myanmar.’ He drank from the glass, a swift movement that was almost robotic, but didn’t swallow immediately. He rolled the liquid around his tongue several times, then tilted his head back as he swallowed.
‘Thank you for trying, Colonel Suphat,’ said Chau-ling. She turned to Lim and spoke to him in Cantonese, then she asked Carver to wait outside for a few minutes.
Carver nodded and the two men left the tent.
Chau-ling smiled at the Colonel. ‘Suppose that someone wished to follow the men, Colonel Suphat. How would such a person do that?’
‘That would be difficult, Miss Tsang. Not to say illegal.’ For the first time he met her glance.
‘Of course, but hypothetically speaking?’
‘One would need a guide. Someone familiar with the area. And a boat. But neither would be a problem in Fang. You . . . I mean such a person . . . would have to hire someone. I, of course, could not allow one of my men . . .’
‘Of course,’ said Chau-ling. ‘But suppose such a person were to attempt a crossing tonight?’
‘Ah,’ said the Colonel, as if only just getting the point. ‘That would not be a problem. I have already ordered my men to withdraw from the area. And the launch is needed elsewhere.’ He drained his glass and went over to the filing cabinet to pour another. ‘May I offer you a drink?’ he asked.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He refilled his glass and poured her a large measure of Red Label. He smiled benignly as he handed her the whisky. ‘I would warn you, Miss Tsang, and I mean you as opposed to the hypothetical person to whom we were referring, that the Golden Triangle is a very dangerous place. Be careful.’
She took the glass and toasted him. ‘Don’t worry, Colonel Suphat,’ she said. ‘I will.’
HUTCH
SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY IN his saddle. The horse he was sitting on wasn’t much bigger than a donkey and it had a jerky walk that meant he could never relax. He looked over at Winter and grimaced. ‘How come you get the big horse, Billy?’
‘Rank has its privileges. Anyway, you’re a dog man, right?’
‘Yeah, I should just be grateful that you didn’t give me a St Bernard.’ Hutch looked over his shoulder. Harrigan was sitting slumped in the saddle. His horse wasn’t much bigger than Hutch’s. Harrigan gave Hutch a half-wave. Bird was bringing up the rear and seemed to be having a hard time keeping up.
They were winding their way along a trail through thick jungle. Dawn was just about to break and the tree canopy was full of bird song. Something small settled on Hutch’s neck and he slapped it. They had been riding for the best part of six hours, stopping only to allow the horses to rest. Nung, the Thai who’d taken them across the river, had handed them over to a Burmese guide, a short, bow-legged man in his early sixties who was wearing camouflage fatigues and had a rifle slung over his shoulders. He hadn’t said a word to the Westerners; he’d simply pointed to the horses and grunted. By the time Hutch, Winter, Harrigan and Bird had mounted, the Burmese guide was already riding off down the trail.
‘How much longer to the camp?’ asked Hutch.
‘A day. Depends.’ Winter ducked as a huge dragonfly sped by, its shiny purple body as long as a man’s hand.
‘Depends? On what?’
‘Zhou has got several camps, he moves between them. I don’t even know which one we’re going to.’
‘What’s he like, this Zhou?’
Winter grinned. ‘He’s difficult to describe. He’s what you might call a character.’ Winter’s horse stumbled and he pulled back on the reins to steady it. ‘But make no mistake about it, Hutch, he’s a vicious bastard. Be careful what you say around him.’
TSANG CHAU-LING STEPPED OFF the boat and slipped on the bank, falling on to her hands and knees. ‘Careful,’ said Carver behind her.
‘I didn’t do it deliberately, Tim,’ she said coolly. She clambered up the bank and wiped her hands on her trousers. The clothes she was wearing were too large, but they were all that Carver’s guide had managed to find late at night. The boots she had on were several sizes too big but she’d put on three pairs of socks and they didn’t rub too much.
Ricky Lim followed her up the bank, a look of disgust on his face. He and Chau-ling had had a furious argument earlier that evening, and the bodyguard was still bristling. Lim had at first refused to go with her and had threatened to call her father but Chau-ling had told him that if he did that then she would leave him behind. Lim had been furious, but eventually he’d had to admit defeat.
Tim and the guide he’d picked up in Fang climbed out of the long-tailed boat and it sped away back to the Thai side of the river. The guide was a thin man with gaunt features, called Home. The DEA agent said he was one of the best guides in northern Thailand and that most of his family still lived in Myanmar. Colonel Suphat had given them a map showing where Hutch had crossed the border and Carver and Home studied it in the moonlight.
Lim loomed over Chau-ling. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind,’ he said.
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘I don’t understand why you’re doing this,’ he said.
Chau-ling bit her lower lip. She hadn’t told the bodyguard why she and Carver were so desperate to reach Hutch, and she thought it best not to enlighten him. ‘I’m sorry, Ricky. I really am. But I have to go after him. If you want, you can go back. You can wait for me in Fang.’
Lim barely managed to suppress a sneer. ‘Do you have any idea what your father would do if I let you go in alone?’ he said.
Chau-ling looked away. She knew. Lim stood glaring at her until Carver came over. ‘Ready?’ he asked.
Chau-ling nodded. Lim grunted.
‘Home can get us horses from a village about a mile away. He reckons he knows which trail they’ve taken and he’s a good tracker. They won’t know they’re being followed so they probably won’t be hurrying.’
‘You think we can catch them before they get to Zhou’s camp?’ asked Chau-ling.
‘I hope so,’ said Carver. ‘Come on, Home is getting nervous.’
JAKE GREGORY STRETCHED OUT his legs and rubbed the back of his neck, kneading the tense muscles with his knuckles. He hadn’t slept for more than twenty-four hours and he didn’t intend to rest until the operation was over. He drained his can of Diet Coke and tossed it into the metal wastepaper basket. It was the sixth can he’d drunk during the night, for the caffeine rather than the taste.
Gregory was sitting at a field desk, on which were a radio transmitter and a map of the Golden Triangle in a clear plastic case. He stood up and did a few stretching exercises, then went to the tent flap and stared at the reddening sky. There were still a few stars visible directly overhead but the moon had disappeared. Gregory gazed up into the heavens. Somewhere up there was the satellite that was keeping a watch over the Golden Triangle, scanning for the frequency of the beacon carried by Tim Carver’s mule. The satellite was being monitored by the National Imagery Office in the Pentagon, acting under instructions from the Vice President, and as soon as the beacon was located a man in the Pentagon would radio Gregory, who would send the Apaches on their way. Gregory looked at his watch, then turned to stare at the transmitter on his desk, willing it to burst into life.
There was a pattering sound on the roof of the tent as if someone was throwing small stones at the canvas. The noise became louder and more insistent and soon the rain was a solid sheet of water beating down on the tent. Gregory closed the flap and went back to his desk.
THE RAIN CAME DOWN in an incessant stream so that it felt to Hutch as if he were riding underwater. His horse kept its head down and its ears back and tested the trail with each step as if it feared that the path would be washed away in the downpour. Hutch couldn’t see for more than fifty feet ahead of him and he followed the horse’s example and kept his head down.
They left the jungle and rode across a field of burned vegetation, the soil turned into a liquid black mess by the rain. The field sloped sharply to the right and the rainwater cascaded down to the valley below. The guide took them up to the crest of the hill and they followed the ridge towards another thickly wooded area.
Hutch stood in his stirrups to take the weight off his aching backside, then sat down again. The horse grunted its disapproval. He could feel the transmitter against his stomach. He still hadn’t decided whether or not he was going to activate it. He didn’t believe that Tim Carver would come up with the half a million dollars; he had only brought money into the equation to convince the DEA agent that he was co-operating. Hutch couldn’t care less about the money, all he wanted was to get out of his present predicament in one piece and to be allowed to start a new life. Whether that new start came from Tim Carver or Billy Winter made no difference to him.
The rain stopped as quickly as it had begun. Hutch’s horse shook its head and snorted. Hutch patted it on the neck. The guide spurred his horse on now that visibility had improved. Eventually the trees began to thin out and the vegetation on the ground became less dense, then they emerged on to a hillside which had been planted with crops. The fields were dotted with tree stumps, and women in black jackets and wide-brimmed straw hats tended whatever vegetables it was that they were growing. The women paid them no attention as they rode up to the brow of the hill.
In the distance, Hutch saw a village: a scattering of wooden and straw huts on stilts at the edge of the tree line. A group of naked children were chasing a chicken through a patch of mud, laughing and shrieking in their excitement. They stopped when they saw the men on horses. For a few seconds they froze, then they turned and ran into one of the huts.
The guide took them through a rectangular archway built of wooden posts covered with carvings. It was about nine feet high and nine feet wide.
‘Don’t touch it,’
said Bird from behind Hutch. ‘It’s a spirit gate.’
Hutch looked at the carvings. There were birds, animals, fruit, and, incongruously, two AK-47s. On one end of the crossbar was a carved man’s face, with a woman’s face at the other end. At the base of the gate were baskets and earthenware pots and rough wooden statues of a man and a woman with grotesquely exaggerated sexual organs.
‘The Akha people believe that the gate keeps out everything bad,’ said Bird. ‘It’s sacred.’
They rode through the gate and by a fenced-off area containing half a dozen sickly pigs. They dismounted in front of one of the huts, tethered their horses and went inside.
An old woman in a black skirt and a brightly embroidered jacket was sitting on a bed which was little more than a layer of logs with a thin mattress over it. Spread out on a low table in front of her was a meal: a wooden bowl of sticky rice, roasted ears of corn, smoked fish and bananas. The guide motioned with his hand that the men were to eat. They sat down around the table and helped themselves.
As they devoured the meal, the old woman took a three-foot-long bamboo tube from a hook on the wall. She opened a small metal tin and took out a ball of a sticky, black substance. It was opium, Hutch realised. As he swallowed handfuls of rice he watched the old woman prepare her opium and put her mouth over the open end of the pipe. The sickly-sweet smell filled the hut and she exhaled with a dreamy look on her face.
The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 42