He smoothed her hair and kissed her on the top of her head.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it gets you like that. The violence. It gets a grip on you without you realising it. It’s like a drug, it pulls you along . . .’
She turned her head up and pushed her lips against his, kissing him hard, reaching around his neck with her arms. Her baseball cap fell off and her hair swung free. Her tears wet his cheeks as they kissed and she pressed herself against him. He threw the gun away and then held her with both hands, touching and caressing as her tongue found its way into his mouth, probing, teasing, exciting him until all thoughts of The Chinaman evaporated and he concentrated on her, the feel of her, the smell of her, the taste of her. She pulled him down on to the ground, her hands groping for his belt, her breath coming in small gasps as she said his name over and over again. He made love to her quickly but gently, in the grass, under the trees, next to The Chinaman’s gun.
Nguyen couldn’t believe that the man would let him go. He was sure that he planned to shoot him as he left the clearing, but there was no gunshot, no thump in the back, he just kept on walking. Once he was sure they really were releasing him he began to run through the forest towards the van. It would only be a matter of time before the four bodies were discovered and when that happened he doubted that Liam Hennessy would be as generous. Nguyen wasn’t surprised at how easy it had been to kill the men, he’d always been good at it, all that was required was the mental switch. He’d fought against it when he first started out, but now that he’d killed he knew that he would follow it through to the end. He would avenge his family, he knew that with a diamond-hard certainty. He would do whatever it took, and there would be no remorse, no guilt. Afterwards, when he’d finished, then he’d worry about his own future, but at the moment he could look no further than the flat in Wapping and the IRA bombers.
He opened the back door of the van and quickly threw out all the supplies inside. He stripped off his camouflage gear and changed back into jeans and a pullover, checked that his money was still under the front seat with his passport, and then he drove the van back down the track and on to the main road and headed for the airport.
They travelled in three Range Rovers with a police motorcycle escort, roaring down the outside lane of the M40 at more than ninety miles per hour. The flashing blue lights and the howling sirens forced a clear path through the early afternoon traffic on the motorway, though there were plenty of resentful looks from the company reps in their Sierras and Escorts as the men in the unmarked Range Rovers went by. Pulling over for fire engines and ambulances was second nature, but nobody liked to move out of the fast lane without knowing why, and there was nothing about the vehicles that identified the men inside as belonging to the SAS.
There were four men in each vehicle, tough-looking men with broad shoulders, but as they hurtled towards London they were laughing and smiling and looked no more threatening than a group of miners on a coach trip to the coast. Mike ‘Joker’ Cramer was in the front passenger seat of the first Range Rover, laughing at a particularly foul joke that the driver, Pete Jackson, had spun out over the last two miles. The men were tense as they always were when going into action, but they used humour to keep themselves from worrying.
In the back seat were Sam ‘Bunny’ Warren and Rob ‘Ginge’ Macdonald. Bunny was tapping the back of his hand against the window and he wasn’t as quick to laugh at Jacko’s joke as the rest were.
Joker, the assault-team leader, was the leanest of the four men, well over six-foot tall, with a thin face that always appeared haggard no matter how much sleep he got. He looked over his shoulder at Bunny, a swarthy, stocky man with piercing green eyes. ‘Is that Morse code, or what, Bunny?’ he said.
Bunny stopped tapping. ‘Sorry, Joker. Habit.’
‘You want some gum?’ Joker asked, holding out the packet of Wrigley’s which he always carried with him now that he’d given up smoking.
‘Cheers,’ said Bunny, taking a piece. ‘We nearly at the RV?’
‘Not far,’ said Joker. He leant forward and picked up the A to Z map of London. The Colonel had called from London and given them an address in Rotherhithe Street, alongside the Thames, where they were to meet. The convoy left the A40 and they motored along Marylebone Road, along Euston Road past King’s Cross and then they followed City Road to the Thames. The motorcycle riders worked in teams, rushing ahead to hold up the traffic whenever the lights weren’t in their favour, then remounting and following up behind like pilot fish busily swimming around prowling sharks. When they reached the river the motorbikes peeled off by arrangement, leaving the three Range Rovers to make their own way across London Bridge to Bermondsey and then left along Jamaica Road to Rotherhithe.
They drove by new wharf-style blocks of riverside flats and then came to the building where the Colonel said they were to meet.
‘This is it,’ said Joker. The three vehicles pulled up at the pavement. Joker climbed out and looked up and down the road. There were no signs that an operation was under way, no police cars, no ambulances, no nothing, just the sound of the Thames lapping against the banks.
The men got out of the cars and stood on the pavement. They were, Joker had to admit to himself, a motley crew. The one thing they had in common was that they were all in the peak of condition and trained to kill. I don’t know what they’ll do to the enemy, thought Joker, but they scare the shit out of me. He tried to remember who’d said that first, whether it had been Wellington or Napoleon, because he was sure he’d heard it somewhere. Whatever, that’s exactly how he felt about the eleven men who began pulling their kit-bags out of the back of the cars.
‘Where do we go?’ asked Reg Lawrence, another assault-team leader.
‘Fifteen B,’ said Joker. ‘This one here.’
He pushed the button by Fifteen B and a light clicked on. There was a television camera behind a glass panel and a red light came on above it and then he heard the Colonel’s voice tell him to come up. The door buzzed and Joker pushed it and the men filed through and followed him upstairs to the third-floor flat.
An intelligence officer in his distinctive green beret had the door open for them.
‘The green slime gets here first for a change,’ jeered a voice from the back, but when Joker looked to see who it was he was met with blank, innocent faces.
The flat was spacious, white-painted walls and ceilings and polished wood floors, a fully fitted kitchen but no furniture, and there was a ‘For Sale’ sign in one of the bedroom windows overlooking the street.
The Colonel was in the lounge looking through a powerful pair of binoculars mounted on a tripod. A large blackboard was leaning against one wall and, as the men stood around, the intelligence officer began drawing a map of the flat under surveillance in white chalk. The Colonel looked up and nodded at Joker. ‘Fancy a look?’ he asked.
The binoculars were trained on a modern wharf on the north side of the river and when Joker looked through them he saw a large french window and a lounge beyond it, a rectangular room with three men sitting around. The television was switched on but Joker couldn’t see what was on the screen. In front of the window was a balcony, twelve-feet square, with a couple of white chairs and a circular table. Joker moved the binoculars sideways. The building was mainly featureless brick wall and double-glazed windows, but two-thirds of the way along the architect had obviously decided to introduce a little variety and he’d staggered the flats so that the one to the left of the flat under observation was about twelve feet further back and the one to the right was an equal distance closer to the river. While it made the building easier on the eye it made it impossible to enter the balcony from either side. There was no flat above the one under observation, but the architect had built a penthouse flat at the right-hand side of the building and its extra-large balcony overlooked it. It was immediately apparent to Joker that the penthouse was the way in. It would be a simple matter to jump down to the balcony below, they wouldn�
��t even have to abseil.
The buzzer sounded from the hallway and the intelligence officer went to open the front door and let in two men from D11, the Metropolitan Police firearms team. They stood at the back of the group of the SAS men, their rifles slung over their shoulders. The Colonel nodded a welcome and went over to the blackboard, chalk in hand.
Woody panicked a little when he opened the door to his bedsit. Clothes were strewn all over the floor, a week’s worth of newspapers were piled up under the room’s one window, and there was a collection of empty lager cans and a three-quarters empty bottle of Bells by the side of the bed. It looked as if a burglar had wreaked vengeance on the place after finding there was nothing worth stealing, but Woody knew it had been in exactly the same state when he left that morning. He rushed around picking up the rubbish, putting the cans and the papers into an old carrier bag, and was just about to carry them downstairs to the dustbin when there was a knock on the door. He cursed and shoved the bag under his bed and smoothed down the quilt. The knock was repeated as he popped into the alcove where there was a mirror above a small wash-basin. He gave his hair a quick comb and then opened the door. It was Maggie in a dark-green suit, her red hair tied back in a ponytail. She was carrying a black leather briefcase and could indeed have been there to sell him insurance, except the smile she gave him wasn’t the professional ‘have I got the policy for you’ type, it was warm and genuine.
He stepped to the side and waved her in. ‘It’s not much,’ he apologised.
She looked round and nodded. ‘You’re right,’ she said.
‘It’s temporary.’
‘It would have to be,’ she laughed. ‘Does it have a bar?’
Woody laughed with her. ‘Yeah, there’s some whisky. Let me wash a couple of glasses.’ He picked up a glass from off his dressing-table and went back into the alcove. There was another glass on the shelf under the mirror containing his toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. He tipped them out and washed both glasses, carried them back, and poured them both a drink.
They clinked glasses. ‘Sit down,’ said Woody.
Maggie looked around the tiny bedsit. ‘Where?’ she said. There was only one chair and that was covered with a pair of jeans and a couple of shirts that looked the worse for wear. She put her briefcase on the floor by the door.
‘It’ll have to be the bed, I’m afraid,’ said Woody.
She smiled and sat down and Woody joined her.
‘So, Rome, then Belfast. You get around.’
‘Yeah, I’m sorry it’s such short notice.’
‘A security conference, you said?’
‘Yeah, lots of top guys. And with any luck there’ll be a big story, too.’
‘I’m pleased, you deserve it. Why is it so hot in here?’
‘I told you,’ he said. He tapped the wall behind them. ‘It’s the immersion heater. It’s really cosy in the winter.’
‘I bet, but this is the middle of summer, Woody.’
‘Let me take your jacket,’ he said, and helped her slip it off. She opened the top button of her blouse and waved the material back and forth to cool herself. She looked up and caught Woody watching her. She didn’t say anything and Woody leaned over and kissed her on her left cheek, close to her mouth.
‘Woody, no,’ she said softly, but she didn’t move away so Woody kissed her again, closer to her lips. He reached up and cupped her breast and tried to kiss her on the mouth but she moved her head and his lips brushed her hair.
‘Woody, don’t,’ she said, but her hand fell into his lap and stayed there and he could hear her breathing heavily. He massaged her full breast through the soft material of the blouse and he felt her nipple stiffen and when he tried to kiss her again this time their lips met.
He unbuttoned her blouse as they kissed. Her bra fastened at the front and after a couple of attempts he undid that, too. Her breasts fell free and he leant forward and kissed them as she cradled his head in her hands.
‘Woody, we don’t have time,’ she said, running her fingers through his hair and kissing the back of his head.
He pressed his fingers against her lips. ‘Shhh,’ he said, and kissed her again as he slipped her blouse off her shoulders. She wriggled her arms out of her sleeves and then she helped him off with his shirt and they lay down next to each other, kissing and caressing. Woody broke free and took off his shoes, socks and trousers and then lay down on top of her.
‘Woody, we can’t,’ whispered Maggie as he began to push her skirt down her hips. She lifted her backside to make it easier for him and he used his foot to push it the rest of the way down her legs.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, kissing her again and running his hands down her legs. She was wearing stockings and they rasped against his fingers. He slipped his hand into the top of her briefs.
‘No, it’s not,’ she said. ‘We can’t make love.’
He removed his hand and raised himself up on one elbow. ‘You’re not a virgin are you?’ he asked.
She collapsed into giggles. ‘That’s very flattering, Woody, but no I’m not.’ She reached up and linked her arms round his neck and pulled him down on top of her. ‘It’s the wrong time of the month,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘I’m sorry.’
Not half as sorry as I am, thought Woody. ‘That’s OK,’ he said, but his voice was heavy with disappointment.
Maggie wrapped her legs around him and held him. She kissed him hard, her tongue probing deep into his mouth and then whispered into his ear again. ‘Lie on your back,’ she said. He did as he was told and she lay next to him, her hand moving gently between his legs. He groaned and she moved up the bed slightly so that her breasts were level with his mouth. ‘Kiss them,’ she said, while her hand became more insistent, moving faster and harder. ‘Kiss them while I make you come.’
The British Airways stewardess stood to one side to allow the passengers to disembark, a flurry of briefcases and forced smiles. She smiled and said goodbye to an Oriental man in a duffel coat, but he looked right through her. He wasn’t carrying any luggage and he was scruffily dressed, jeans and a pullover under the coat. There were streaks of dirt across his face as if he’d washed in a hurry and, not to put too fine a point on it, he stank to high heavens. One of the passengers who had been sitting on the same row had asked to be moved and the stewardess had had to agree. The smell turned her stomach, the bitter aroma of skin that hadn’t seen soap and water in a long time. The man had been hungry and had wolfed down the tray of cake and sandwiches put in front of him, keeping his coat firmly buttoned up throughout the flight. She’d pointed the man out to the chief steward but he’d told her not to worry, security checks on the flights between Belfast and London were second to none and he looked more like a man taking his first flight than a potential hijacker. The smell? Well, that was a nuisance, but what could you expect, she was told. Nguyen left the plane at a brisk walk. He had to get to central London before the shops closed.
Woody stretched and looked at his watch. ‘Christ, is that the time?’ he said.
‘What time is that?’ asked Maggie. She was lying with her back to Woody, her head in the crook of his right arm.
‘It’s six o’clock. I’m going to have to run.’ He slid his arm out from under her neck and kissed her shoulder. She turned and kissed him on the lips and his hand went to her breasts again and he moved on top of her. ‘I wish I could make love to you,’ he sighed.
‘You will,’ she said. She hadn’t allowed him to remove her briefs or stockings but she had made him scream with pleasure with her hands, extending his pleasure until he was exhausted. He’d asked if he could make her come but she refused, saying that she’d rather wait until they could make love properly and fully. ‘When you get back from Belfast,’ she’d promised.
Woody sat up and pulled on his underpants, then his socks, then his trousers. Maggie sat up while he went to his wardrobe and took out a clean shirt. She made no attempt to cover herself and Woody turned to admire h
er breasts while he buttoned his shirt up and put on a tie. She laughed and leant over to pick up her briefcase and swung it on to the bed. She clicked open the case and took out a piece of paper. ‘Here’s the address and phone number of my cousin. I rang him this afternoon and said you’d be coming over and that you’d call him some time.’
Woody walked over to take the sheet of paper but as he reached for it she moved it away, catching him off balance. ‘Ask nicely,’ she teased. He leant forward and kissed her and she put her arms around his neck, pulling him down on the bed. Woody pulled away and this time she gave him the paper. ‘And can you give him this?’ she said, reaching into the case. She took out a laptop computer and put it on the bed beside her. ‘He asked me to get it repaired. He bought it in London last year and couldn’t get it fixed in Belfast. It’s OK now. Do you mind? I know it’ll mean taking it all the way to Rome and then back to Belfast, but I don’t trust the Post Office.’
Woody shook his head. ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ He picked it up and put it in his overnight bag along with a change of clothes and his washing kit. Maggie made no move to get out of bed so Woody asked her what she planned to do.
‘Can I stay here for a while?’ she asked. ‘I’ll let myself out.’
‘Sure,’ said Woody, looking at his watch again. ‘Christ, I’m going to have to dash. I’ll call you from Rome. What’s your home number?’
She grimaced. ‘My phone’s out of order. I’ll call you from a call box. What hotel will you be staying at?’
‘Hell, I don’t know. Call the office, they’ll tell you.’ He picked up his bag and kissed her. He blew her another kiss from the door and closed it behind him.
She lay back in the bed and put her hands over her eyes. She felt sticky and dirty being with the grubby man in his grubby room, relieving him with her hands and pretending to love it. She shuddered. ‘The things I do for you, Denis Fisher,’ she said to herself.
The Chinaman Page 34