Harrigan watched her, enthralled. ‘Hey, Billy . . .’ he began.
‘No,’ said Winter.
‘You don’t know . . .’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Winter. ‘I’ve got to deliver you back home in good condition, Ray. And that means no dope.’
‘It’s only smoke,’ protested Harrigan.
‘It’s opium,’ said Winter. ‘And opium is just one step away from heroin.’
‘When did you join the anti-drug squad?’ sneered Harrigan.
‘Selling is one thing; using is another. Only dickheads use it, Ray. You should remember that.’
Harrigan said nothing. He continued to eat but kept his eyes on the old woman as she smoked.
SMOKE FROM CARVER’S CIGARETTE blew across Chau-ling’s face and she coughed pointedly. ‘Sorry,’ said the DEA agent. He flicked the half-smoked Marlboro into a muddy puddle. It had stopped raining two hours earlier but they still wore the green plastic ponchos that Home had given them. The jungle was steaming around them and water still dripped from the tree canopy overhead. Home had dismounted and was talking to a group of hilltribe women in black jackets and wide trousers with baskets filled with firewood on their backs. One of the women pointed off to the west, smiling broadly.
‘Do you think we’ll find them?’ asked Chau-ling.
‘Having second thoughts?’ said Carver.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Home knows what he’s doing. He’s over here every week or so.’
‘He’s a smuggler?’
‘He’s a businessman who does occasional favours for the DEA.’
Chau-ling looked at him, her eyes narrowed almost to slits. ‘You don’t care who you use, do you?’
Carver looked stung by her remark. ‘Hey, I’m here with you, aren’t I? I’m trying to put this right.’
‘Okay, but your organisation uses people, doesn’t it?’
‘They do what they have to do to get the job done.’
Home left the women and climbed back on to his horse. He rode over to Carver and they spoke in Thai. ‘They’re about three hours ahead of us,’ Carver told Chau-ling. ‘They must have stopped for a while. If we keep up the pace, we should catch them by this evening.’
Home moved off down the trail and Carver, Chau-ling and Lim followed him. Chau-ling drew up next to Carver and they rode side by side. ‘You’re not getting away that easily, Mr DEA Agent. You didn’t answer my question. What gives you the right to use men like Hutch?’
‘We have to fight fire with fire.’
‘That’s a cliché, and it’s not even an appropriate one. Hutch isn’t part of the problem, it’s nothing to do with him. This man Winter was using him, and now you’re doing the same. It’s not fair.’
Carver smiled and shook his head in wonder. ‘How old are you, Chau-ling?’
‘Why?’ she asked, defensively.
‘Because you’re old enough to know better, that’s why. Life isn’t fair. If it was, the warlords of the Golden Triangle and the cocaine cartels of South America wouldn’t be flooding America with drugs. You don’t beat these people by playing by the rules.’
Chau-ling opened her mouth to reply, but before she could speak a shot rang out and the guide pitched backwards off his horse. Chau-ling’s mount reared and she toppled from her saddle. She hit the ground hard and the fall knocked the breath out of her. Her frightened horse galloped off through the trees. There were more shots in the distance, louder than the first one.
Ricky Lim jumped off his horse and ran over to her. He knelt by her side and looked down at her. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.
‘Just winded,’ she gasped. ‘What . . . ?’
A large chunk of Lim’s head exploded in a shower of red and he fell across her chest. Warm blood trickled over Chau-Ling’s face and she screamed. Lim’s body trembled and then went still. Chau-ling pushed him off her and rolled away, still screaming. She scrambled to her feet and looked frantically around.
Tim Carver was still on his horse but he’d dropped the reins and was sitting with his hands up in surrender. Three men in jungle fatigues had surrounded him. They jabbed at him with the barrels of their rifles as they shouted at him in a language she didn’t recognise. The horse was scared, its ears were back and its eyes were wide and staring.
Chau-ling backed away, then turned and began to run, panting in terror. She looked over her shoulder. One of the men fired, shooting Carver’s horse at point-blank range. The horse dropped where it stood and Carver fell to the side, one of his legs trapped under the dead animal.
Chau-ling tripped and staggered against a tree. The men were kicking Carver, screaming at him with every blow. He curled up to protect himself, his arms up around his head. Chau-ling knew there was nothing she could do to help him; all she could do was to try to save herself and to go for help. She pushed herself away from the tree, then froze. There were two men standing behind her, wearing the same sort of fatigues as the ones who were kicking Carver. One of them pointed his rifle at her face and said something to her. She raised her hands slowly. The other man grinned and stepped forward. He raised the butt of his weapon and slammed it against the side of her head. She fell without a sound.
THE SKY WAS DARKENING when Hutch saw the compound for the first time. They’d been accompanied by Zhou’s men for the previous hour, hard-faced men in camouflage fatigues carrying M16s. The men had appeared from out of the jungle without a word and had kept their distance. They joined the convoy in ones and twos until there were a dozen of them, walking with almost no sound through the undergrowth.
‘Don’t look at them,’ said Winter out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Pretend they’re not there.’
Hutch followed Winter’s instructions, but it was difficult to ignore the men. Most of them had their fingers on the triggers of their weapons and Hutch doubted that they had their safety catches on. He fixed his eyes on the compound gates. Around the compound was a fence of sharpened bamboo stakes. Its entrance was guarded by two men wearing sarong-style trousers and camouflage jackets. To the right of the main gate were three wooden stakes, and Hutch saw with horror that there were bodies impaled on two of them, decomposed bodies that had been ravaged by birds and insects until they were virtually unrecognisable as human. The third stake was topped by a gleaming white skull.
He twisted around in his saddle. Harrigan was staring open mouthed at the grisly remains.
‘Don’t stare,’ hissed Winter.
‘Billy, what the hell have you got us into?’ said Hutch.
‘Relax. He’s on our side,’ replied Winter.
They passed through the gate and by a group of huts made from wooden planks with thatched roofs. Men in camouflage uniforms were lounging on small stools in front of the huts. Several were stripping down and oiling guns. They all looked up to watch the riders go by.
The largest building was in the centre of the compound. It was built on thick wooden stilts and had the relative luxury of a corrugated-iron roof. Nung led them behind the building to a corral where they dismounted and tied up their horses. Two small boys rushed forward with buckets of water which they poured into a wooden trough. Hutch stopped to admire a huge white horse.
‘That’s Zhou’s,’ said Winter. ‘Watch it, it’s mean.’
Hutch walked slowly towards the animal. It snorted menacingly and stamped its hoofs, but Hutch spoke to it softly and reached out his hand. The horse eyed him warily but allowed Hutch to pat it gently on the flanks. ‘He’s a softie,’ whispered Hutch. ‘A big softie.’
‘Yeah, well, let’s see how you get on with its owner,’ said Winter.
Nung went off to one of the thatched huts while Winter led Hutch, Harrigan and Bird to the front of the large building. Two men with rifles were standing guard at the bottom of the steps leading up to the entrance, and barred their way.
‘Bird, tell them to be nice,’ said Winter.
Before Bird could speak, music blared from inside the b
uilding. It was several bars before Hutch recognised the tune. It was Billy Ray Cyrus singing ‘Achy Breaky Heart’. Hutch looked across at Winter in amazement.
‘He’s a country and western fan,’ said Winter. ‘Don’t ask me why.’
The music suddenly increased in volume, so much so that the metal roof began to vibrate. Zhou Yuanyi appeared at the top of the steps. For a moment he didn’t see the three visitors, and stared out over the compound, his hands on his hips. He was wearing black jodhpurs, riding boots and a white silk shirt and his eyes were hidden behind Ray-Ban sunglasses. His right foot was tapping to the music, but it stopped dead when he noticed the four men staring up at him. He disappeared back into the building and seconds later the stereo was switched off. Zhou reappeared and shouted down at the guards, who stepped aside, and Winter led Bird, Harrigan and Hutch up the steps.
‘Billy, my friend,’ said Zhou. ‘You had a safe journey, I hope?’
‘Uneventful,’ said Winter. He made no move to shake hands. Instead he put his hands together and gave him a wai. Bird and Harrigan did the same. Zhou returned the gesture, Hutch stood with his arms folded. Zhou wasn’t a big man; he was slightly overweight with a chubby face and soft, baby-like skin. He reminded Hutch of a boy he’d known at school, a boy who was always eating sweets and always had a note from his mother to excuse him from gym class. It was hard to believe that this was one of the most powerful warlords in the Golden Triangle.
If Zhou was offended by Hutch’s reluctance to wai him, he didn’t show it. He gave him a beaming smile. ‘You must be Hutch. Billy has told me a lot about you.’
‘Not too much, I hope.’
‘That you were the only man who could get Ray out of Klong Prem. And he was right.’
‘I did have an incentive,’ said Hutch.
‘Sit, sit,’ said Zhou, waving them inside to cushions scattered around the teak floor. Zhou sat on a teak bench so that they all had to look up at him. He had a large handgun in a holster in the small of his back, an ornate weapon with carving on the barrel and strips of mother-of-pearl on the handle. An elderly servant in white jacket and black pants brought in a bottle of whisky and five glasses and they toasted each other. The servant switched on two standard lamps at either end of the room then left them alone.
‘First we shall drink, then you can shower, and then we shall eat,’ said Zhou. ‘Then I have planned a little entertainment.’
‘Entertainment?’ asked Winter.
‘Not girls, Billy. Not girls.’ Zhou roared with laughter. ‘I have never met a man with such an appetite for girls,’ he said to Hutch. ‘He is a terrible man.’
‘Terrible,’ agreed Hutch.
Zhou waved his tumbler of whisky at Winter. ‘Two of my men were caught stealing from me. I have been waiting for your arrival so that I can deal with them.’ He laughed again. Winter laughed too, but he gave Hutch a quick sidelong glance and Hutch could see that the laughter was forced.
‘So, Hutch, do you like country music?’ asked Zhou.
Hutch shrugged.
‘Billy Ray Cyrus is a great favourite of mine. Do you like Billy Ray Cyrus?’
Hutch shrugged again. He couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘How long will we stay here?’ he asked.
‘A few days,’ said Zhou. ‘A week at most. A man is coming from Yangon with the paperwork. He will take photographs for your new passports, then he will go to Bangkok to process them.’
‘What sort of passports?’ asked Hutch.
‘British. American. Whatever you wish.’
‘It’s that simple?’
‘We have contacts in most embassies in Bangkok. It will not be a problem. My man will then get you the requisite visa in Yangon, and you can leave on a scheduled flight to anywhere in the world.’
‘I told you it wouldn’t be a problem,’ said Winter. He patted Harrigan on the back. ‘You’ll be back in Ireland before you know it, Ray.’
Hutch got to his feet and put his untouched whisky on a side table. ‘Is there a toilet I can use?’ he asked.
Zhou clapped his hands and the old servant appeared. ‘He will show you where it is,’ said Zhou. ‘It is primitive, I’m afraid.’
Hutch followed the old man down the steps and around the side of the building. They walked by a water tower from which several hosepipes ran to various parts of the compound. The latrine building was a wooden hut with a bamboo door at one end. The old man pointed to it and shuffled back to the main building.
The smell assailed Hutch’s nostrils as he opened the door. The toilet was even more basic than the facilities he’d had to use in Klong Prem. There was a large hole in the ground, a pit about three feet wide and twelve feet long, over which had been placed a number of roughly hewn planks, and a tin bath filled with water.
Hutch stood on two of the planks and urinated into the pit. The smell was nauseating and Hutch held his breath. He zipped up his fly, lifted his sweatshirt and peeled the sticking plaster off his stomach. He held the transmitter in his hands for a second or two, wondering if he was doing the right thing. He didn’t owe Tim Carver any favours, and the DEA agent had been as ruthless as Billy Winter in forcing Hutch to do what he wanted. But whereas Hutch and Billy had a history, he knew nothing about Carver.
‘Better the devil I know,’ Hutch said to himself. He dropped the transmitter into the hole. It floated on the brown, crusty surface, then slowly dipped sideways and disappeared into the foul-smelling mess. The surface bubbled and plopped and then went still.
Hutch washed his hands in the tin bath and then went back outside and began to walk around the compound. The sun had almost gone down and oil lamps were being lit and hung from the roofs of the huts. The electricity supplied by the generator was confined to Zhou’s building, to power his lights, fans, refrigerator and stereo.
At the far end of the compound was a wooden hut with a barred door. There were two men standing inside, with their hands in the air. Hutch frowned, wondering what they were doing. He walked towards the bars. As he got closer he could see that their hands were chained to a rafter and that they were having to stand on tiptoe to take the weight off their arms. They looked up anxiously as Hutch approached, then seemed relieved when they saw that he wasn’t one of their captors. Hutch realised that they must be the entertainment promised by Zhou. He shuddered as he remembered the impaled bodies at the entrance to the compound. The men began to shout in their own language, obviously imploring him to help. He backed away. No matter what fate Zhou had in store for them, there was nothing he could do.
Zhou’s stereo started up again, Billy Ray Cyrus at full volume. By the time Hutch got to the front of Zhou’s building, Zhou, Winter, Harrigan and Bird were standing at the entrance. Zhou had his gun in his hand and he raised it skywards. He pulled the trigger and the shot echoed around the compound. To Hutch’s amazement fifty of Zhou’s men rushed forward and formed into ranks as if they were on parade, but almost immediately they began to line-dance to the record, clapping their hands and stamping their feet in time with the music. Hutch watched open mouthed. Zhou stood with his hands on his hips, grinning at the display and nodding his appreciation. Despite the gathering gloom, he was still wearing his Ray-Bans.
SHE WAS LYING FACE down and something was banging against her stomach. There was a strong smell, a smell she remembered from her childhood. Her pony, the pony her father had bought her for her tenth birthday. Robbie, it was called. It had died when she was fifteen and she’d cried for a month. Tsang Chau-ling opened her eyes. Her hands had been tied with rough rope and she couldn’t move her legs. She had a throbbing headache. She looked to her right, past the rear of the mule they’d tied her to. Three men were walking in single file, their rifles held close to their chests, and behind them was another mule. All she could see was a vague shape slung across the mule’s back but she knew it must be Tim Carver. She turned her head the other way, wincing from the pain. Ahead of her were another five men, one of them with a radio strapped to his
back and a short antenna wobbling above his head.
‘Water,’ she said. She repeated the request in Cantonese, louder this time. She wracked her brains for the Thai word for water but then remembered that she was in Burma and they probably wouldn’t understand anyway. One of the men walked up to her. All she could see was his boots and camouflage trousers so she twisted her neck to look up at him. ‘Water,’ she gasped. The man smiled showing several broken teeth. He lifted his rifle and smacked the butt against the back of her head.
THE OLD MAN BEGAN clearing away the plates while Zhou poured himself a large measure of brandy and handed the bottle to Winter. Hutch sat back in his chair and looked across the table at Harrigan. The Irishman seemed as perplexed as Hutch at their surroundings. They were sitting at a long table which had been covered with a red cloth on which were three silver candelabras with burning candles. The meal they had eaten – several varieties of meat curry, rice and slices of roast pig – had been served on fine china that wouldn’t have been out of place in a five-star hotel; the wine was an excellent claret which they drank from crystal goblets, and the cutlery was solid silver. It was hard to believe that they were in the jungle hundreds of miles from the nearest city.
Winter passed the brandy to Hutch but he shook his head. ‘Take it,’ hissed Winter.
Hutch did as he was told. Even though Winter was smiling and laughing throughout the meal, Hutch could see that he was tense and taking care not to offend their host. Hutch poured brandy into his glass and then gave the bottle to Harrigan.
‘So, Ray, how does it feel to be a free man?’ asked Zhou.
Harrigan shrugged. He seemed to be having trouble speaking and had said only a few words throughout the meal. ‘Okay. I guess.’
Zhou turned his attention to Hutch. The flickering candles were reflected in the lenses of his Ray-Bans. ‘So tell me, Hutch, how did you escape from Klong Prem?’
The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 43