Winter waved a blue passport at Hutch. ‘He’s an American,’ said Winter. ‘And in this part of the world, a Yank means only one thing.’
‘DEA?’
Winter made a gun with his hand and mimed shooting Hutch in the chest. ‘Right first time, old lad.’
Zhou hit Carver again.
‘What’s the story?’ asked Hutch.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
Zhou took his gun from the holster in the small of his back and jammed it up against Carver’s neck. ‘Tell me why you are here,’ he said, enunciating each word slowly and precisely.
Carver started coughing. He turned his head away. There was a gash on his right cheek, and scratches on his neck. Zhou turned the gun around and brought the butt down on the top of Carver’s head with a sickening crunch. Carver slumped to the floor, unconscious. Zhou glared down at him, then slowly put his gun back in its holster. He strutted back to the table and sat down. ‘Sit with me!’ he boomed.
Winter, Hutch, Harrigan and Bird took their places around the table. Zhou passed the brandy bottle and one by one they refilled their glasses. Harrigan’s hands were shaking and he spilled brandy on the tablecloth as he poured.
‘I hate the Americans,’ said Zhou. ‘I hate their hypocrisy.’ He looked around the table at his guests as if daring them to argue with him. ‘They need me. They need me but they pretend that I’m public enemy number one.’ The sunglasses came to bear on Hutch. Hutch could see himself reflected in the lenses of the impenetrable Ray-Bans. He smiled and nodded, wanting the man to keep on talking, even though he could make no sense of what he was saying.
‘Last year the murder rate in New York City was half what it was in 1990,’ Zhou said. ‘Year on year there has been a twenty per cent fall in violent crime right across America. I read that in the International Herald Tribune. Do you read the Tribune, Hutch?’
Hutch shook his head. There were two paperclips on the table, close to the base of one of the candelabras.
‘You should. You really should. It lets you know how America thinks.’
‘I’ll read it,’ said Hutch. He rested his right arm on the table. The paperclips were only inches from his fingertips.
‘Do you know why the crime rate is falling in America?’ asked Zhou. They all shook their heads. He tapped his own chest. ‘It’s because of me. Because of the heroin that I send to America. Ten years ago it was crack cocaine that Americans used. Crack cocaine is a dangerous drug: it causes mood swings, it boosts aggression. A crack cocaine addict is a dangerous animal, Hutch, as dangerous as an injured tiger. But heroin, ah, heroin is different. Heroin is calming; a man on heroin doesn’t go out and steal a car or mug a tourist: he sits and dreams. Heroin addicts still steal but they tend to do so without violence. And because I have kept the price down, fewer crimes are committed. I have done the United States a great service, yet they treat me as if I was a gangster. The Colombians, they are the real villains, they are the butchers.’
Zhou looked around the table again. His audience was transfixed. Hutch edged his hand forward and put it over the paperclips.
‘Who here has ever taken heroin?’ Zhou asked.
Harrigan raised his hand uncertainly. So did Bird.
‘It is a harmless release, nothing more,’ Zhou continued. ‘It has been used as a medicine for centuries. You could use heroin for fifty years and suffer no ill effects. Hundreds of thousands die every year in America from lung cancer caused by smoking cigarettes. Smoking causes heart disease, and half a million die from that every year. Who dies from heroin? Only fools who use too much, who overdose because they are careless. Heroin is safer than tobacco, safer than alcohol.’
Hutch slipped the paperclips into his pocket.
Zhou got up from the table and went to stand at the entrance to the building. He looked out over his compound, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Nobody forces anyone to take heroin. I supply a need, nothing more. We don’t advertise like the tobacco companies, we don’t push our product down people’s throats. We don’t sponsor sports events, we don’t run special offers to get them to try our product.’ He turned around and put his hands on his hips. ‘People take heroin because they want to. Because they like it. I give people what they want, and they call me a criminal.’
‘Doesn’t seem fair, does it?’ said Winter.
BART LUCARELLI PUNCHED IN the co-ordinates of the transmitter’s location into the data entry keypad with his left hand and cross-checked the numbers on the video monitor. A single digit wrong and they could be tens of miles adrift, and the jungle at night was as featureless as an ocean. He slipped the piece of paper that the DEA executive had given him on to the clipboard fastened to his right thigh.
‘Okay, Bart?’ asked Peter Burden through the headset.
‘Data’s in,’ said Lucarelli. ‘We should be within range of the transmitter within twenty-five minutes.’ He scanned the VDU which was showing an infrared display from the acquisition/designation sight in the nose of the Apache. The sky was clear ahead, just as Gregory had said it would be.
ZHOU GRABBED CARVER’S HEAD and put his face close to the DEA agent’s ear. ‘You will tell me why you’re here,’ he shouted. ‘You will tell me and then you will die.’
Winter looked at Hutch and raised an eyebrow. Zhou’s interrogation technique left a lot to be desired.
Zhou slapped Carver, splitting his lip. Zhou looked at his hand in disgust, then took a napkin from the table and wiped it.
Winter waved the old servant over and selected another cigar. As he lit it, Hutch stood up and rubbed his stomach. ‘I’m going to have to use the latrine again,’ he said.
‘Yeah? Sure you’re not just wimping out?’ Winter gestured at the bound DEA agent. ‘Bit much for you, is it?’
‘I don’t get a kick out of seeing people being hurt,’ said Hutch. ‘And I didn’t think you did, either.’
Winter leaned closer to Hutch. ‘You can’t show any weakness here, Hutch,’ he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. He looked around theatrically. ‘It’s a jungle.’
He laughed uproariously as Hutch went outside.
THE FARMER SAT IN the doorway of his house, listening to its timbers creaking in the wind. His wife was upstairs, asleep, their four children curled up on mats behind him. He leaned back against the door jamb and closed his eyes. It had been a good harvest; he’d been right about the quality of the land. The poppies had been tall and healthy with an average of five flowers per plant. Zhou Yuanyi had been well pleased with the crop. Not pleased enough to pay the farmer a bonus, but pleased enough to ride down to the house to thank the farmer personally. The farmer had seen Zhou coming on his white horse and had ushered his daughters inside before going out to meet him. Zhou’s taste for young girls was well known in the area and the farmer’s eldest daughter was rapidly approaching puberty.
There was a half-empty bottle of Thai whisky by the farmer’s side and he reached for it with his eyes closed. His fingers grasped the neck and he raised it to his lips and drank deeply. He deserved a drink: he’d chosen the land, he’d supervised the planting of the poppy seeds, and he’d been in charge of the harvesting of the crop. He was sure he’d get two more decent harvests from the land, maybe three, before the soil was exhausted and it was time to move on.
In the distance he heard a rumbling growl, like a tractor running at full throttle. The farmer opened his eyes. There wasn’t a tractor within fifty miles: the hills were too steep for machinery to do the ploughing and the work was done by sure-footed buffaloes. The growl deepened and he took another drink from the bottle. It was coming from the west and getting louder by the second.
The farmer stood up and stretched. He peered at the night sky, studded with a million stars. He’d seen planes pass overhead before, but they’d never been as loud as this. And planes made a more regular sound, a constant drone. This was a clattering roar with a high-pitched whistle. He’d never heard a sound like it before
.
Something moved at the periphery of his vision and he turned his head. He was fifty years old but he had perfect eyesight. Far off in the distance, following the ridge of a line of hills, two objects moved across the sky. He could barely make out the shape of the silhouettes, but they obliterated the stars as they passed. The farmer took another drink from the bottle. He knew what they were: helicopters. He’d seen helicopters before: the Burmese army used them to search for the poppy fields, and to ferry troops around. But there was something different about the sound these helicopters made. They sounded bigger, and, somehow, more menacing.
HUTCH LOOKED OVER HIS shoulder but there was no one close by. ‘Chau-ling!’ he whispered. She murmured incoherently. Hutch straightened the paperclip and inserted it into the padlock. He felt for the tumblers. It had been so easy at the dining table, but now he was trembling and there seemed to be no feeling in his fingers. He shook his hand to restore the circulation and tried again. The paperclip slipped from his fumbling fingers and fell to the ground.
THE JUNGLE FLASHED BELOW the Apache, as dark and seamless as the sea. The cyclic between Bart Lucarelli’s legs moved as if it had a life of its own, following the movements made by Peter Burden in the pilot’s seat behind him. Lucarelli was staring straight through the armoured windscreen panel but he was taking in information through the monocle sight of the Honeywell Integrated Helmet and Display System which effectively superimposed the Apache’s key flight data on an infra-red picture of whatever he was looking at. Lucarelli’s ears were sweating under the headset, but he ignored the discomfort. ‘Thirty-five klicks,’ he said.
‘Thirty-five,’ repeated Burden.
Lucarelli looked over his right shoulder. The other Apache was just behind them. He gave a thumbs-up to Warner but the other navigator didn’t return the gesture. He was probably too engrossed in his own instruments.
Lucarelli turned back to his cockpit display and let his eyes play over the instruments, most of which duplicated those on the pilot’s panel. The co-pilot’s cockpit was equipped with the controls and instrumentation to be able to fly the Apache, and Lucarelli was as capable a pilot as Burden, but on this mission he had only two tasks: to get them to the beacon, and to fire the Hellfire missiles. Like the DEA executive had said at the briefing, it would be a milk run.
ZHOU PICKED UP A fruit knife off the dining table and tested its sharpness on his thumb. He went over to Carver and pressed the tip of the blade against the DEA agent’s throat. A dribble of blood ran down the stainless steel. ‘Did you see the men I impaled?’ Zhou asked through clenched teeth. ‘That’s what I’m going to do to you. Do you know how long it takes to die that way?’
Carver twisted away from the knife, but Zhou pushed it deeper into his throat. For a moment it looked as if Zhou was going to kill him there and then, but he had a sudden change of heart and withdrew the blade. Blood poured from the cut. Zhou sneered at Carver. ‘Look at you. Bleeding like a pig.’
The contents of Carver’s pockets were on a side table. Zhou flicked through the DEA agent’s passport. ‘I see you’ve visited our country before. Thailand, Laos, Hong Kong, Vietnam; you’ve been to a lot of places, Mr Carver. So what brings you to my domain?’ He threw the passport into Carver’s lap. ‘And why no visa this time? How did you get into the country? You’re with the DEA, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not with the DEA,’ said Carver. ‘I’m a tourist. I—-’
Zhou stepped forward and sliced the knife across Carver’s mouth. Blood spurted in a crimson fountain and Carver’s head jerked backwards.
‘Don’t lie to me!’ Zhou barked. ‘I am not stupid! When you lie to me, you’re saying that I am not an intelligent man, that I can be fooled by simple words.’ He picked up the second passport, the one he’d taken from the girl. There was blood on Zhou’s fingers and he smeared it over the pages as he went through it. ‘This girl, who is she? Is she also with the DEA?’
Carver shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Hong Kong Chinese. I killed a man from Hong Kong last month.’ He looked at the photograph in the front of the passport. ‘It’s the first time the DEA has used a girl.’
‘She’s not with the DEA,’ said Carver. He had difficulty forming words, every movement of his lips causing him agonising pain.
‘Tsang Chau-ling,’ said Zhou. ‘I’m going to have some fun with this Tsang Chau-ling.’
Bird looked up as if he’d been stung. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What did you say her name was?’
THE BUFFALO BOY WALKED between his animals, talking to them in a low, hushed voice. Normally they lay down to sleep as soon as the sun went down, but something was upsetting them. When they were lazy or disobedient, the only way to make them behave was to hit them with his stick, but the Buffalo Boy knew that they had to be calmed with soft words. One of them, the biggest, with huge backswept horns as thick as the boy’s thigh, stamped a hoof on the ground and grunted.
The Buffalo Boy tucked his stick under his arm and patted the animal’s flank. He’d never seen them like this before. Even snakes didn’t scare them this much. Two of the females were edging away from the herd and the Buffalo Boy ran over to bring them back. He heard the noise then, far off in the distance. It sounded like a truck being driven up a hill, its engine straining against the gradient. It wasn’t a truck, though, the Buffalo Boy knew, because there were no roads near by, just fields and tracks and jungle. He held his stick in both hands as if preparing to beat off an attacker.
The noise became louder and louder until it was a roaring growl that he could feel vibrating through his chest. Still he could see nothing, just the trees and stars and the hills in the distance.
‘It’s not a dragon,’ he whispered to himself. ‘There aren’t any dragons. Not here.’
The big bull buffalo lowered its horns and pawed at the ground as if he too was preparing to meet an attacker. Together they waited for the source of the noise to reveal itself.
The roar reached a whistling crescendo and then two massive shapes swooped overhead and the Buffalo Boy ducked involuntarily. The herd scattered in panic and the Buffalo Boy turned around to stare after the helicopters as the slipstream tugged at his tattered T-shirt and shorts. The grass around him whirled and whispered as if it was being ruffled by unseen hands.
The Buffalo Boy stood stock still, staring after the helicopters. He wondered how much a helicopter would cost. One day, he promised himself, when he was as rich as Zhou Yuanyi, he’d have his own helicopter. And a Mercedes. And a gold wristwatch studded with diamonds.
The helicopters disappeared from view but the Buffalo Boy didn’t move until the noise of their turbines had faded away.
THE PADLOCK CLICKED OPEN and Hutch pulled it free. He threw it to the side and yanked open the barred door. He rushed to Chau-ling and lifted her head. Her eyelids flickered and Hutch felt a wave of relief wash over him. She hadn’t moved all the time he’d been working on the padlock and while he knew they wouldn’t have bothered locking up a corpse, he had still feared the worst.
‘Chau-ling,’ he said, stroking the side of her face.
She opened her eyes and looked at him in disbelief. ‘Warren?’ she said.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked.
She put her head back and looked up at her bound hands. She forced a smile. ‘Just hanging around,’ she said.
Hutch hugged her and she grunted. ‘Maybe you should get me down first,’ she said, then suddenly stiffened. ‘Did you activate the transmitter?’ she asked.
Hutch was stunned. ‘How did you know—-?’ he began, but she cut him off mid-sentence.
‘Did you press the button?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it’s all right. Help’s on the way.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ she gasped. ‘They’re not coming to help. They’re coming to kill Zhou Yuanyi. They’re going to kill everybody.’
Hutch took a step back, surprised by her ferocity. ‘What the hell are you
talking about?’
‘Just get me down. Quickly.’
‘I think you should just leave her where she is,’ said a voice. Hutch whirled around. It was Bird. In one hand he was holding Chau-ling’s passport, in the other, a large automatic.
Hutch raised his hands. Bird stepped into the cell. He dropped the passport at Hutch’s feet. ‘I know about the girl,’ he said, ‘but what’s your connection to the DEA agent?’
‘Bird, I just want to get out of here, that’s all. I’ve done what Winter wanted, I helped you get Harrigan out.’
‘You’re working with Carver, aren’t you? That’s why they didn’t shoot us at the river.’ He pointed the gun at Hutch’s face. ‘I should kill you right now.’ His face broke into a malicious grin. ‘But I think Zhou will be more than generous if I let him do it. He loves to torture traitors.’
Hutch took another step back. ‘I’m not a traitor, Bird. I don’t know what Carver’s doing here, or why he brought Chau-ling with him. But I’m . . .’ He lunged at the gun but Bird easily evaded the attack. Hutch raised his hands again. ‘Okay, okay. Take it easy.’
The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 45