by Clive Hindle
That did make Natalia smile and it was almost like old times. “He sounds loco your friend,” she said.
“He is loco! He is totally crackers. Stark, staring bonkers!”
“Bonkers?” She looked bewildered.
“Oh, no, not in that way!” he exclaimed, remembering he had taught her a few choice English expressions.
They lapsed back into silence but not before this memory made Gerry sigh for the old days. Since that occasion in Hong Kong, Jack had been lucky enough to survive a serious mountaineering accident. He had always been lucky, had Jack, the Chinese were right about him. What could he do with some of that now, not to mention the fabled footware he’d talked about? Then he’d carry Rapunzel away - across the Horn - assuming, of course, he could get her out of this crumbling tower. The sharp rap on the door pulled him back into the real world. Natalia sat up as if she had touched the insect burner. Gerry put one hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said, “let them in.”
She had her hand to her mouth. “Gerry, I’m frightened,” she replied.
“Don’t worry, I’ve been dealing with people like this all my life. I know how to handle them.” Not for the first time he wished he was armed, but he’d never have got through immigration if he had been. The place might be further back than the ark but some of that electronic surveillance equipment was state-of-the-art. What would he do with a gun anyway? Apart from the odd 12-bore kangaroo shoot the big 4 x 4s with the searchlight on the top of the cab, he’d never touched one in his life. He picked up the briefcase; it was stuffed with dollars.
The second knock was more insistent than the first. “Trust me,” Gerry added, “open it!” Natalia’s hand was like adhesive, as if she couldn’t tear it away. Another corpse zapped the fly tray. Should have shut the fly screen, Gerry thought and then realised how stupid that was. Some of the world’s most dangerous psychopaths were about to beat down the door and he was worried about the slaughter of the insects as if he might pay for it in some Buddhist after-life. He had to hold his nerve now; he couldn’t let Natalia see he was scared. He told himself it should be no worries; at bottom we are all businessmen; they want American dollars, I have them. His finger touched her rosebud lips, she rose out of her chair. Reluctance still evident, she crossed to the door and opened it. A man in a black leather jacket, his swarthy face unshaven, grinned in what could be seen as an obsequious manner, except for the fact that, simultaneously, he fingered a gun in his waistband. Another man stood to this crocodile’s left; he was partially concealed by the doorjamb but he was very big.
CHAPTER 2
About 12 degrees of latitude north and a hundred and thirty of longitude west, ten hours behind as the sun flies, Jack Lauder relaxed on the viewing veranda of the Wooden Doll. He was looking out towards the Collingwood Monument on the cliffs above Tynemouth. Something had made him think about Gerry Montrose but he didn’t quite know what. It didn’t feel good; he had a queasy feeling in the stomach and he hoped it wasn’t because of the little matter of a £50,000 loan. He hadn’t pried too deeply into his friend’s need for that amount of cash. He knew it involved a woman and Gerry often made mistakes where women were concerned, although maybe not as big as some of the mistakes the women made about him.
They had been colleagues together for a time in the imperial service in Hong Kong. Jack’s love of Britain had brought him back to these shores whereas Gerry had stayed in the east. But even though they were so far apart the two of them had stayed in touch. There was a disturbance in the force tonight; a sudden tingling came with his friend’s name and image attached. Jack was alert to the workings of his sixth sense, because, when the other five let him down, it had often come to his rescue.
What might have given birth to the thought today was the Old China Hand connection: he was a guest at a function of a Hong Kong businessman called Johnny Kwok, who was celebrating his acquisition of the Wooden Doll. This famous old watering hole of the Tynemouth riverbank had just become Johnny’s flagship Chinese buffet bar specialising in Cantonese dim sum. Years of working in Hong Kong had put Jack in good stead with the local Chinese community. Many of the businessmen had adopted him as their lok si, and he had profited well from the association.
A hundred feet below, at the beginning of the Tyne gorge, the pilot boat was on its way downriver to a ship waiting at the crab’s claw pier, a working vessel with the shape and structure of an old whaler. She flew the Russian flag. What’s a Russian doing here, he wondered? He watched with interest as the pilot transferred aboard to steer her towards the Shields Quay past the Black Middens.
Johnny Kwok made his way through a throng of well-wishers and when he reached Jack he held out his hand. “So glad you came, Mr. Jack. I really need speak to you.” Even though Johnny talked to you and heard your reply his eyes were always surveying the room. He was never really with you.
“Problems?” Jack asked.
“No, not problem, nice business for you. A mutual friend.”
“A mutual friend?” He leaned in closer, sensing the secrecy in Johnny‘s hushed tone. His concern was for a compatriot called Mr. Ma, who wanted Jack to handle his affairs in the UK. “Why me?”
“I always recommend you, Mr. Jack, but this time I didn’t need because Ma Sing-saang say he know you from your Hong Kong time.”
That took Jack by surprise. His time there was a few years back now. “I can’t for the life of me remember anyone by that name.”
“Is there another Mr. Jack?” Johnny asked with a flattering smile. “He says you do him big favour once.” No, that simply did not compute. “Maybe, you know him as soon as you meet him?”
“Well, yes. Maybe. So he’s moving to England then? To Newcastle?”
“I think he more likely London,” Johnny replied, “or he may go Vancouver. But he has many deals here.” He waved his hand about him and Jack got the impression that perhaps this Hong Kong magnate had invested in this business too. The rich and powerful among the Hong Kong glitterati feared the CCP, the Communist Party of China, enough to have their bolt-holes ready. He had to be cautious, though, because the ones with the most to fear had often earned their money illegally. The Chinese tolerated them as the capitalist system had previously but in a subtly different way. With the British in control the wealthy criminals merely had to behave themselves and keep a low profile. But the British wouldn’t be in charge for long; the Chinese would. It wasn’t quite the same with the Chinese: they tolerated only those who paid them off. It was a variation on a theme: the Chinese emperors invented the kou tou because Confucius considered the act of lowering the body to show respect essential to a harmonious society. The perfect performance was three kneels and nine knocks of the head against the ground. The passing of the baton from a Confucian to a Communist society had not materially altered the national approach to hierarchy; only the hierophants had changed.
At around ten with the party still in full swing, Jack decided it was time to make his excuses. Meanwhile, down on the quay, a shadow flitted along the deserted waterfront and boarded the silent Russian vessel. A short-circuit in the power system made her lights flicker intermittently. The intruder made his way below to the captain’s cabin. On the bureau he located the key to the gun cabinet, crossed to it and removed a sawn-off shotgun from its mounting. The steel stairs up to the deck shook as he took them two at a time. Tiptoeing back down the gangplank, he slunk like a water rat along the shoreline. No prying eyes witnessed the burglary; all hands were on shore leave at the notorious riverbank nightclub known as The Jungle.
The shadowy figure went there now and it didn’t take long before someone started a fight. Sometime after it began - no one could remember quite how or when - a man staggered out of the alley which led from the back door. He was screaming but no one could hear him; the noise in the pub was deafening. Another man stepped out behind him. He didn’t move fast; he didn’t need to: the first shot had removed the other man’s stomach. As the victim turned to face him
the stalker gave him the second in the heart. By this time Jack was already walking home. The sound of the shot carried on the night air and he stopped and turned back towards the quay. He was a quarter of a mile inland now and he was a hundred feet above the riverbank. The second shot made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He knew that sound well enough. It was no more than a mile or so to his home and he hurried now, taking a series of short cuts through the streets of silent warehouses. He didn’t notice the figure until it came out from the pool of darkness behind a street light. By that time it was travelling like lightning, dressed from head to toe in black.
Jack’s body appreciated what was happening before the danger registered in his brain. He braced himself for the attack, adopting something similar to the ma chai position of Wing Chun martial arts. He was still fit but he didn’t stand a chance: the attacker’s foot snaked out while he still seemed ten feet away and caught him on the side of the head. He crashed over on the pavement. His attacker rolled him over, pulled his tongue out before he choked and whispered, “One chance! Where is it?”
“Where is what?” Jack croaked.
“What Monro give you!” Two oriental eyes stared down at him, a fierce determination burning in them. The arm which held him down was naked where his sleeve had rolled up and a dragon tattoo covered the forearm from wrist to elbow.
Jack tried to struggle to his feet but was slammed back down by a hand like a brick, surprisingly heavy for one so slight. His brain was trying to get the message, because he would give it if he could. No one needed to tell him it was the only way to survive. The next moment car headlights reflected like the moons of Saturn in the same eyes and his attacker looked up at the police car which had turned into the darkened street. Staring back down he cursed: “diu lei lo mo!” The next moment he was gone and a concerned policeman, whom Jack recognised as one of those with whom he regularly crossed swords down at the Police Court, was helping him up. “You all right, Mr. Lauder? the officer asked.
“Did you see him?” Jack asked, rubbing his eyes. It was as if they had glazed over during the attack and he wondered if his assailant had used hypnosis. Was it his voice? His eyes?
“See who, sir? There was no one there, just you. Been on the sauce, eh?” The policeman was jovial, “there’s nowt wrang wi’ a bevy or two[1].” He was joined now by a policewoman. “Did you see anyone in the headlights?” the male officer asked her.
Jack looked on, intrigued to hear her answer. She shook her head and looked at him askance. “No one,” she replied. Hmm, Jack thought, but he gladly accepted the offer of a lift home. He had that kind of relationship with the police. He didn’t drink with them, didn’t consort with them, didn’t exchange titbits of information, but he had their grudging respect. He was lost in thought on the way, however, because, unless he had been much mistaken, his assailant had mentioned Gerry Montrose.
When he got in he rang Gerry’s land line in Hong Kong and when that didn’t pick up he rang his mobile only for the number to ring out incessantly until an automatic voice interrupted to say he should call back another time. On the table in front of him was his chess board and, the way he had left the pieces, an attack was developing which was too offensive too soon with too little firepower. There were many open lines with white already castled. Launching an offensive without proper preparation will often backfire. He wondered if that is what Gerry had done, closed his eyes and hoped his friend was okay.
Nothing wrong with a drink
CHAPTER 3
Jack finally got to sleep only to be called out of bed in the early hours of the morning to represent a man who had been arrested for murder. “Who did you say?” he asked groggily because he thought he’d misheard the name as it sounded so strange. The custody officer, whose voice he recognised, claimed he couldn’t pronounce it properly so he spelled it out. “Russian, you say?” The realisation dawned that the call hadn’t been made because his reputation had travelled half way across the world but because it was his turn on the duty roster. The caller told him the Russian was a sea captain.
“I think I saw that boat come in.” The memory loomed dimly through the fog. The custody officer on the other end laughed at his sleepiness and reminded Jack that he had been up all night.
“You get paid for being on the night shift. Not me. Anyway, what’s the evidence?” He knew this custody officer well and he wasn’t the type to be secretive for the sake of it.
“The best there is, Jack. The murder weapon’s his. Sawn-off shotgun.”
“Ah. What was he doing with a sawn-off?”
“That’s what we’re asking.”
“Could it be connected with his work?”
“Ship captain needs a sawn-off. What? To stop the crew mutinying? That’s a new one on me.”
“Seal gun?”
That knocked him sideways. “Why’s it sawn off?” The response was pugnacious.
“Yeah, okay.” There was a point to it but it wasn‘t worth going into unless that was the defence. “Has he said anything?”
“Not a word. Claims to know no English.”
“Great! I guess you’ve sent for an interpreter?”
“Jack, we’re ahead of you. He’s on his way.”
“Check, so am I.”
Petrov (Peter) was indeed the skipper of the Russian factory-fishing vessel and he had become embroiled in a fish quay feud in which a local smuggler, Geordie Armstrong, had been murdered. The murder weapon just happened to be Peter’s shotgun and it was double bad news that it was a sawn-off. That counted heavily against him: criminals tend to saw off the barrel for ease of concealment and for the scattergun effect, which makes up for poor marksmanship. The plods couldn’t see any innocent explanation. The officer in charge of the case, Detective Superintendent Lowther, was an old adversary. He had also read the report from the two uniformed officers who said they had found him “spark out on the pavement” the night before.
“I wasn’t spark out!” he protested. “I’d been attacked and …”
Lowther was chuckling away. “Yeah, yeah, I can see it all here, they said you were hallucinating too! Must be the DTs bonny lad! I’ve heard of imaginary friends before but imaginary enemies?” There is nothing a police officer likes more than to rip the Mickey out of a lawyer. The case was odd, though. It wasn’t just the usual fish quay conspiracy of silence, which had a long history from the days of the Napoleonic Wars when they had sent the press gangs packing. The modern victims were DSS snoopers. Since the MAFF started to de-commission fishing boats, the official payroll had reduced considerably. But the over-enthusiastic questioning of the part-employed fishermen, whom the DSS suspected of moonlighting, meant the snoopers could often be seen sliding down the gut on the bones of their arse. Added to that dislike of anyone who was not from the Tyne riverbank the case had spawned a virulent stream of racism because the main suspect was Russian. The locals had him convicted before he was tried.
An interpreter was present at Jack’s meeting with the client because the police had assumed he couldn‘t understand English when he had failed to answer their questions. Yet when Jack had a few moments alone with him he discovered this was a device. The Russian not only understood the language, he was well-educated, as many Russians had been under the Soviet system. He was very pleased to find that Jack had visited his country. “Where did you go?” he asked.
“I went to Moscow on business just after the Soviet Union started splitting up. It was scary. The wild east they called it. Petersburg, was okay.”
“Ah, I was born in the east. Never been to Petersburg,” Peter replied. “They say it is a very western city and it has no soul.”
“No? Well, I had this long-standing wish to go to the Hermitage and see the chess sets of some of the Tsars. Peter the Great and Catherine the Second. They have the Faberge one of the last Tsar, Nicholas the Second, too.”
“You are a chess player?”
“Yes. Why? You play chess, too?”
; “Well of course, I am Russian!”
“Oh yes, part of the education. I wonder if you will continue to be so great when the State system is no longer behind you?”
The Russian smiled. “I suspect Kasparov is the last of the line,” he replied.
Peter reckoned he played a pretty mean game of chess and when you are a player and a Russian tells you that, you listen, and not just because of Kasparov and Karpov and a few others, but because of a long history of chess hegemony going back to between the world wars. “Did you know,” Jack asked, “that Ivan the Terrible died over a chess board, playing with his successor, Boris Godunov?”
“No I didn’t!” Peter laughed. “Foul play was it?”
“Officially it was a heart attack but maybe he was getting a good beating, although the eye witness account from the English ambassador suggests it happened before the game began in earnest.”