The Chinaman

by Stephen Leather

  There was a loud click and the man shouted: ‘That should do it.’ Nguyen stepped from behind the van, the knife ready. He was holding the blade about two inches from its tip, the handle upwards. The man closed the van door and as he did, Nguyen had a clear view of the side of his head and his neck and he threw hard. The blade thudded into the man’s throat and blood gushed down his chest. Nguyen began moving as the man’s mouth opened and closed with no sound because the blade had speared his Adam’s apple. He transferred the Browning to his right hand, side-stepped across the rear of the van and moved up the left side. The two men at the front had opened the bonnet and had their heads over the engine. ‘What do you reckon, pull out the spark-plug leads?’ one said.

  ‘Yeah. And let down the tyres. That should fix the bastard.’

  There was a thud as the man with the knife in his throat fell to the ground, his shotgun scraping against the side of the van.

  ‘What’s up, Tommy?’ said one of the men.

  Nguyen stepped swiftly up to the front of the van, knowing that the two men would be distracted by the noise of the falling body.

  ‘Tommy?’ said the man again, and it was followed by a curse. As Nguyen got to the front the two men had their backs to him as they moved towards their dying friend. Nguyen put the barrel of his gun up against the head of the man nearest to him and fired. The shot was muffled as the bullet smashed through the skull and exploded out of the man’s face in a red and pink shower of blood and brains. The other man whirled around but before the shotgun could point at Nguyen he fired the Browning a second time, hitting the man in the dead centre of his chest. He fell backwards, a look of surprise on his face and blood blossoming on his shirt, the shotgun dropping from nerveless fingers.

  It had taken less than a minute but all four were dead. Nguyen took no pride in the achievement. When he’d first travelled over to Ireland he’d hoped to get what he wanted without killing anyone. He knew that people would have to be hurt before they’d take him seriously, but he’d taken enough lives during his time in the jungles of Vietnam and he hadn’t wanted to add to his body count. They’d forced him into it, he said to himself. It was their fault.

  He stood over the body of the last man he’d killed and listened. The forest had gone silent but gradually the birdsong and insect noise returned and when he was satisfied that all was well he turned towards the corpses.

  Kerry heard two gunshots, the second louder and more distinct than the first. It sounded as if they came from two different guns. She had gone about eight hundred yards into the forest and was making progress, albeit slowly. She’d found where Nguyen had entered the trees but had lost his trail soon after and had wasted more than an hour doubling back and then searching backwards and forwards in an arc shape until she picked it up again. There was no obvious path for The Chinaman to follow and he had constantly had to change direction to get around large trees or bushes. And her task was made harder by the fact that Nguyen had travelled in both directions. Half the signs that she found were actually made when he had been going west, towards the farm, not into the depths of the forest.

  The shots had come from the east, but she had no way of knowing how far away they had been, or even if they had been the result of Nguyen firing a gun or being shot at. If Nguyen was under fire then there was a chance that he’d now be running through the forest in the other direction, putting even more distance between them. If she carried on at her snail’s pace she’d never catch up with him. But if she hurried towards the source of the shots and it turned out to be nothing more than poachers or Uncle Liam’s men letting off their guns, accidentally or otherwise, then she risked losing the trail.

  She tried to think what her father would do. Stick with the tracks or go after the shots? She thought of the tracking expeditions with her father, usually taking rich Germans and Japanese out into the Highlands to kill deer, looking for the spore and the tracks until they were close enough for the kill. Sometimes he’d take shortcuts, ignoring the signs because he felt that he knew instinctively where the deer were. That’s how it felt now, she realised. She knew the shots came from Nguyen. She felt it inside. She began to run eastwards, towards where she thought the shots had come from.

  Sean Morrison had heard the shots, too. He was almost a mile from the forest, faithfully following the trail Kerry had left for him. He immediately recognised the sounds as coming from a pistol rather than a shotgun or rifle, and guessed that it had been Nguyen. Kavanagh and the boys had taken shotguns and a poacher or farmer wouldn’t use a handgun.

  He ran for the trees. He saw a twig that Kerry had placed in the gap between two sycamore trees but he ignored it, taking the path of least resistance through the undergrowth. It was never easy to judge how far away a noise like a gunshot was, but Sean didn’t reckon it could have been much more than three miles away, possibly closer. He ran for all he was worth because there had only been two shots and whereas Nguyen was armed he knew that Kerry didn’t have a gun.

  Nguyen dragged the bodies one by one into the undergrowth, putting his arms under their shoulders and letting their heels scrape along the ground. There was no point in going to the trouble of digging graves for them because any serious search would see the disturbed soil, so he made do by hiding them inside a large patch of brambles and covering them with ferns. When he’d finished there were eight wavy lines carved in the mud by their feet and he used a leafy branch to wipe them away.

  He went back along the track to find out what transport Hennessy’s men had used and came upon the two Land-Rovers. They were blocking the track so he’d have to move them when he wanted to drive the van out, but it made more sense to take them further into the forest right away.

  Luckily both sets of keys had been left in the ignition. He climbed into the first and started the engine. His hands began to shake and he gripped the steering wheel tightly, the tension making the veins stand up on the backs of his hands. He struggled to control himself, not sure what was causing the nervous reaction. It could have been delayed shock, but it had never happened to him before after combat, and he had no remorse for what he’d done. He had no doubt at all that the four men would have taken his life without a second thought. So what was the problem? He closed his eyes and felt the vibrations of the diesel engine through his arms, making the bones shudder. He had to regain control of himself, he owed it to his family.

  Kerry heard an engine start up and a few minutes later a vehicle growl through the trees. She headed towards the noise and in the distance she saw a Land-Rover. In the driving seat was a small, Oriental man dressed in a camouflage uniform.

  ‘The Chinaman,’ she said under her breath. She crept forward and hid behind a sycamore tree. She watched as Nguyen stopped the Land-Rover under a spreading horse chestnut at the edge of a clearing and got out. He walked off into the woods and a few minutes later returned with an armful of ferns which he spread over the roof, bonnet and wheels. He then placed branches against the sides of the vehicle before standing back to inspect his handiwork. On his back was a small rucksack, similar to the one she was using to carry her equipment. Stuck into the waistband of his trousers was a large gun and the sight of it reminded her that she didn’t have a weapon. Damn Sean Morrison, she thought. Damn him for not leaving the gun. One shot and it would all be over.

  Nguyen walked off into the trees again and Kerry followed him. She didn’t want to get too close because she was aware that her feet were making a noise as she moved through the undergrowth, no matter how much care she took. She lost him but then heard another engine start up and saw him drive a second Land-Rover along the track. She’d seen it before, parked in the courtyard of her uncle’s farm, and with a rising sense of fear she wondered what had happened to the men who’d been driving in the vehicles. Surely The Chinaman couldn’t have killed them all? Besides, there had only been two shots.

  She crept from tree to tree though with less urgency this time because she knew where he was going. She caught up
with him as he was stacking more ferns on the Land-Rover’s bonnet and knelt down behind a tree to watch. He walked off into the undergrowth again, presumably for more branches, and he was soon out of sight.

  She looked at her watch and wondered where the hell Sean Morrison had got to. The thought suddenly came to her that she hadn’t left a trail for him to follow. Would he be smart enough to spot where she’d run through the forest? Had she taught him enough in their few hours together? The only way she had of showing her position was to fire the flare gun, and she couldn’t do that without alerting The Chinaman. Her breath quickened at the thought of the flare gun. What if she were to bring in The Chinaman herself? The flare gun would be just as threatening as a pistol. She slid the rucksack off her back and undid the cords at the top. As she put her hand in and groped around for the flare gun she heard a click behind her and found herself looking down the barrel of an automatic pistol.

  ‘Stand up, slowly,’ said Nguyen. He kept the gun trained on her face as she got to her feet, still holding the rucksack. She clutched it to her chest like a baby. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  She thought frantically. ‘I’m a . . . I’m a . . . er . . .’ she stammered. ‘I’m a birdwatcher. Watching birds. My binoculars are in here.’ She nodded at her rucksack. ‘Let me show you.’ Her shaking hand tightened around the handle of the flare gun, but she suddenly realised that it wasn’t loaded, the cartridges were loose in the rucksack.

  Nguyen held out his hand. ‘Give me,’ he said. She handed over the rucksack. ‘Drop the pole. And move into the clearing,’ he said, gesturing with the gun. They walked together out of the shade of the trees and he made her stand by one of the Land-Rovers.

  ‘How old are you?’ Nguyen asked, frowning.

  ‘Twenty-four,’ she said.

  ‘I had a daughter who would be twenty-four this year,’ said Nguyen. He stepped back and put the rucksack on the floor, kneeling down beside it. She wondered if she could rush him, but he never took his eyes off her, using his hands to search the rucksack. He pulled out the case containing the binoculars and opened it.

  ‘Bird-watching,’ repeated Kerry, willing The Chinaman to believe her. She was finding it hard to breathe and her mouth had gone dry.

  Nguyen nodded, placed the case on the ground, and continued to rummage inside the rucksack. He took out the walkie-talkie and examined it and put it next to the binoculars. Again his hand went in like a conjuror looking for the white rabbit, though this time he came out with Kerry’s notebook.

  Kerry began to say that it was for drawing birds she had seen but Nguyen ignored her and slowly turned the pages. He saw the sketch she’d made of his footprint and he nodded to himself. ‘Birdwatching,’ he mused.

  They both heard a crashing noise from the depths of the forest, the sound of a man running. Nguyen looked over his shoulder, then back to the girl, obviously unsure what to do. Kerry knew that The Chinaman was considering shooting her, or maybe using the big hunting knife fastened to the strap of his rucksack. Her stomach turned liquid.

  The crashing noise got louder and Nguyen moved away from Kerry, deciding that she was the lesser threat. He ran in a crouch to the edge of the clearing, his gun at the ready. As he ran, Kerry grabbed her rucksack and groped for the flare gun and a cartridge. Her hands were trembling and it took several attempts before she managed to open the gun and force home the cartridge.

  She moved to the side so that she could see over The Chinaman’s shoulder. He was standing about fifty feet away from her, cocking his head and listening, and then raising the gun as Morrison came into view. Kerry saw him at the same time as Nguyen did, his dark hair waving in the wind and his haversack banging on his hip as he ran. Nguyen ducked behind a tree and Kerry stepped forward, aiming the flare gun with both hands.

  Morrison saw her and shouted, and began waving frantically.

  ‘Sean, watch out!’ she yelled, as Nguyen moved from behind the tree and pointed his pistol at Morrison.

  ‘Nguyen, it’s all right! It’s all over!’ Morrison yelled, and The Chinaman lowered his gun. As he did, Kerry pulled the trigger.

  ‘Kerry! No! No!’ Morrison screamed.

  The pistol kicked in her hands but she kept it steady and there was a loud whooshing noise as the flare erupted from the barrel and hurtled through the air leaving behind a trail of white smoke in the still air. It smacked into the rucksack on Nguyen’s back. Nguyen whirled round and pointed his gun at Kerry. She flinched, throwing her hands up in front of her face, knowing that he wouldn’t miss at that range. Nguyen’s finger tightened on the trigger but he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot her. Not a girl. He could smell the burning flare and his ears were filled with the hiss of melting nylon and he knew that she had killed him, that there were only seconds before the heat ignited the bomb in the rucksack. He dropped the Browning and struggled with the straps of the rucksack, yelling at her to get away from him.

  Morrison burst into the clearing and saw Kerry kneeling on the ground, her head in her hands. At first he thought that she’d been shot but there was no blood and he hadn’t heard The Chinaman fire his gun.

  ‘Go away, go away!’ screamed Nguyen. ‘Bomb! Bomb!’

  Suddenly Morrison realised what was happening, why The Chinaman had thrown his gun on the ground and why he was now frantically fumbling with the nylon rucksack. Morrison rushed forward and grabbed one of the straps, forcing it down off his shoulder. The Chinaman was gasping for breath, twisting and turning to get the deadly package off his back. The heat from the flare seared Morrison’s hands and he saw the hairs on his wrists shrivel and blacken, then he was hit by a wave of pain that made him cry out. The white light was blinding and he closed his eyes as the rucksack pulled away from The Chinaman’s shoulders and he slumped to the ground. Morrison swung the burning mass as hard as he could and let it fly up into the air, hissing and spluttering into the trees, and then he dived over to shield Kerry, falling against her and knocking her to the ground, then lying across her and shouting at her to keep her eyes closed and her face covered.

  The explosion came within seconds, the blast deafening and vibrating the ground like a small earthquake, followed by a barrage of twigs and chunks of wood that fell like a tropical rain shower and then stopped just as suddenly. The forest was silent, as if the bomb had killed every living thing for miles. Morrison rolled off Kerry and helped her to her feet. In the distance a bird whistled and was answered by another. Short, nervous calls as if they were testing the silence. Satisfied that Kerry hadn’t been hurt, Morrison went over to The Chinaman, who was rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of his hand, coughing and retching.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, surprising Morrison with his politeness.

  Morrison heard a metallic click and he turned to see Kerry, her hands dwarfed by the big Browning.

  ‘Move away, Sean,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve got the bastard covered.’

  ‘Easy, Kerry,’ said Morrison. ‘Put the gun down. He’s not going to hurt anyone.’ The Chinaman showed no fear. He looked at Kerry, his face expressionless.

  ‘I’m going to kill him,’ she said, her voice oddly flat. Morrison wondered if maybe she was in shock. Her eyes were cold, almost blank, as if she was sleep-walking, but she seemed to have no trouble in keeping the gun pointed at the centre of The Chinaman’s chest.

  ‘It’s over,’ said Morrison, holding his hand out for the gun. ‘We’ve found out who the bombers are. We know who was backing them. It’s finished. We can all go home.’

  ‘It’s not over!’ she hissed. ‘It won’t be over until he’s dead.’

  Morrison looked at The Chinaman. He was standing with his hands loose at his side, his head slightly bowed but his eyes fixed on Kerry’s face as if willing her to shoot, as if he wanted her to end it. There was, Morrison thought, a sadness in his eyes, a look that said that there was nothing else they could do to him. Morrison looked back at Kerry, his hand still outstretched.

  ‘
Kerry, he could have shot you. He didn’t. You can’t kill him. He’s not armed, he’s not a threat.’ He stepped forward and she took half a step back. ‘He had a deal with Liam, and we’re going to stick to it. It’s over. Give me the gun and we can go home.’

  Her finger began to squeeze the trigger and Morrison knew that she was about to fire. Still The Chinaman stayed rooted to the spot. ‘Kerry, if you do this you’re doing it for the wrong reason. You’re not doing it for Liam Hennessy, or for your father, or for the IRA,’ Morrison said. He took another step forward. ‘You’re doing it for yourself.’ Another step. The gun was almost within reach. ‘It’d be on your conscience for ever. It’s not worth it. Trust me, I know. It’s not worth it.’ He moved quickly, bringing down his right hand and forcing the gun to the side, away from The Chinaman, and then he grabbed it and twisted it out of her grasp. She tried to get the gun back but he held it out of her reach. She yelled in frustration, then drew back her hand and slapped him across the face, hard, and began to sob. He stepped forward and took her in his arms, holding her close but being careful to keep the gun where she couldn’t grab it, just in case. She put her head against his shoulder and he could feel her body shudder as she cried. He turned with her slowly, as if they were dancing to a slow song, until he was facing The Chinaman.

  ‘Go,’ said Morrison.

  ‘You said you had the names?’

  Morrison told him the names of the bombers, and the address of the flat in Wapping where they were based, and Nguyen repeated them to himself, imprinting the information on his memory.

  ‘Thank you,’ Nguyen said.

  ‘Don’t thank me. Just go.’

  Nguyen turned and walked into the undergrowth, leaving Morrison and Kerry alone in the clearing. She had stopped crying and he could feel her chest rising and falling in time with her breathing. ‘I’m sorry, Sean,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’