‘That’s right.’
‘And the company was happy to help? Despite what they were being used for?’
‘Our company has a long and proud history of supporting the military,’ said Wally. ‘We ended up sending several million aces of spades, in special packs. Didn’t charge them a cent. We designed a special pack. “Secret Weapon, Bicycle Ace of Spades”, it said. Don’t know if they were all used. Is this of any use to you, Inspector Hunter?’
‘A great help, Wally. Believe me. You said something about an Operation Phoenix. What was that about?’
‘It was a plan to destroy the VC by getting rid of as many members as possible. They used bribery, military attacks, and there were rumours of assassinations. The South targeted some ten thousand VCs who were reckoned to be crucial to the organisation, from local politicians up to full generals. Thousands of them died.’
‘Thousands of assassinations?’
‘Depends who you believe,’ said Wally. ‘The official line was that most were killed in military engagements. Jane Fonda and her lily-livered liberals would probably accuse our boys of personally torturing and butchering every last man.’
Hunter made copious notes in his notebook, grateful for the man’s slow delivery. ‘And who was involved in this operation?’
‘Now, I’m no expert on the Vietnam War, Inspector Hunter. Playing cards are my specialty. You’d better talk to someone who knows what they’re talking about. I wouldn’t want to steer you wrong.’
Hunter clicked his ballpoint pen shut. ‘Wally, I can’t thank you enough,’ he said.
Dennis O’Leary awoke, struggling to breathe. He tried to twist his head to the side but something was clamped across his chin, pressing him down on to the bed.
‘Don’t struggle, and don’t make a noise, Dennis,’ hissed a man’s voice.
O’Leary tried to turn to face the man but he couldn’t move his head.
‘I mean it, Dennis,’ said the man. ‘I don’t want to have to kill your maid or anyone else who’s in the house, but I will if they wake up. Do you understand?’
O’Leary nodded.
‘Now, I’m going to take my hand away, and I don’t want you to make a sound until I’ve finished speaking, do you understand, Dennis?’
O’Leary nodded again. He didn’t recognise the voice, but the accent was American.
‘I’ve got a knife, Dennis, a very sharp knife, and I know how to use it. If I even think you’re going to shout for help I’ll slit your throat. Understand?’
O’Leary closed his eyes and nodded. The hand went from his mouth and he felt the man move around the bed and sit down on the edge of it. O’Leary opened his eyes. The man was in his late twenties with a military haircut and a prominent dimple in his chin.
‘What do you want?’ O’Leary whispered.
The man held a finger to his lips and held up a knife. It had a long, thin blade and was curved slightly at the point. ‘I want you to tell me everything you told Nick Wright,’ said the man. ‘And then I want you to tell me everything that you didn’t tell him.’
Gerry Hunter dialled the number of Jim Bamber’s hotel. The female receptionist who answered had an East European accent and spoke English that was slightly too correct, as if she’d learned from a textbook published in the ’fifties. Hunter asked to speak to Bamber.
‘I am terribly sorry, but the gentleman is no longer resident at our establishment,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Hunter. The FBI agent hadn’t said that he was planning to change hotels. It was unprofessional of him not to have informed the Met.
‘I am certain. The gentleman checked out on Tuesday last.’
‘Did he leave a forwarding number? Somewhere I can reach him?’
‘I am afraid that he did not.’
Hunter thanked the girl and replaced the receiver. He called over to a WPC who was inputting data into her HOLMES computer and asked her if she had an up-to-date number for Bamber. She shook her head. Hunter had hoped that Bamber would be able to suggest the name of someone who could brief him on the Vietnam War and in particular Operation Phoenix. He also wanted to ask him if Clive had voiced any suspicions about there being a Vietnam connection to Eckhardt’s murder. Reynolds had said that Clive was going to ask Bamber to help him get information on Eckhardt’s war service record from the Defense Department. Now he’d have to wait until the FBI agent got in touch.
He decided to call his local library. There was a lady there, Miss Blackstone, who often helped him with enquiries. He’d never actually met her, but he pictured Miss Blackstone as a fifty-something matronly figure, several stones overweight with ornate spectacles and purple-tinted hair. She worked in the reference section, and always seemed pleased to hear from him; he felt that she probably enjoyed telling her friends how she helped Scotland Yard crack their most difficult cases.
‘Why, Gerald, it’s so nice to hear from you,’ she said when he got through to her. She insisted on calling him Gerald, even though no one else, not even his parents, used the full version of his name. Hunter explained what he wanted. ‘Operation Phoenix,’ she whispered as if she was frightened of being overheard. ‘What’s the case, Gerald?’
‘It’s confidential at the moment, Miss Blackstone. I’ll be able to tell you more once I’ve got a suspect, but at the moment I’m just looking for background information.’
‘We do have an extensive military history section,’ she said. ‘Let me see what I’ve got on the Vietnam War.’
‘Could you do me a favour, Miss Blackstone? Could you fax me over anything you find?’ He knew from past experience that the librarian would do such a thorough job that it could take her several hours. Miss Blackstone said she’d be delighted to and Hunter gave her the fax number before hanging up.
Hunter sat back in his chair. He was worried about Bamber checking out of his hotel without telling him. Everything else about the man had been extremely professional; it was out of character for him not to have been in touch. He obtained the American Embassy’s telephone number from directory enquiries and asked to be put through to the FBI’s office. He got through to one of the Bureau’s representatives who introduced himself as Ed Harris, a legal attaché. Hunter explained who he was and that he was trying to track down Jim Bamber.
‘Never heard of him,’ said Harris.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. There are only five of us here in London. What office does he work out of?’
‘Washington,’ said Hunter.
‘And he’s here in what capacity?’ asked Harris.
‘Shouldn’t you know? He’s one of your agents.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Harris. ‘The London office is part of the FBI’s legal attaché programme. We’re here to liaise with the local police forces and security services. We exchange information, we don’t investigate crimes.’
‘But this guy Bamber, he said he’d been seconded here from Washington. He said—-’
‘Don’t get me wrong, Inspector Hunter, I’m not saying it’s not possible, I’m just saying that he’s not working out of the London office. He could be reporting direct to Washington or to the Bureau’s intelligence division. What exactly is he doing here?’
‘He’s helping us with a murder enquiry. An American by the name of Max Eckhardt. But he’s checked out of his hotel and I don’t know where he is.’
‘Well, I can assure you he hasn’t made contact with us,’ said Harris. ‘But I’ll speak to headquarters, he shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Give me your number and I’ll get back to you.’
Hunter did as Harris asked and thanked him. He replaced the receiver. His stomach growled and he decided to pop over to the canteen for a quick meal. He had a hunch that it was going to be a long night.
Nick Wright was in a cold, dark place. His hands were shaking and his legs were trembling. He was afraid. ‘Dad?’ His voice echoed around the darkness, but there was no reply. ‘Dad?’ he called again. Th
ere was a ringing sound off in the distance, muffled as if it was coming through water. He opened his eyes. It was a telephone.
He groaned, rolled on to his stomach, and reached for the phone by his bed. He put it to his ear and heard a dialling tone. The ringing continued. He dropped the receiver back on its cradle.
The ringing was coming from Wright’s suitcase. He pulled it down from the top of the wardrobe and opened it. It was his mobile ringing. ‘Yeah?’ he said, putting it to his ear.
‘Nick?’ It was Tommy Reid.
‘Hey, Tommy.’
‘Wasn’t sure if your mobile would work,’ said Reid.
‘It’s a GSM, same as yours,’ said Wright. ‘Should work anywhere in the world.’
‘Satellites,’ said Reid. ‘Bloody marvellous, aren’t they? How’s it going, mate?’ He was slurring his words. Wright looked at his wristwatch. It was just after midnight back in London. ‘You alone, or have you got some lovely Asian babe with you?’
‘I’m alone, Tommy. Alone and asleep. What do you want?’
‘Just wanted to see how you were getting on.’
‘Great. Eckhardt and Horvitz served together in Vietnam,’ said Wright. ‘In a unit called the Tunnel Rats. Something happened twenty-five years ago, something they want to keep secret.’
‘Yeah? What was that?’
Wright closed his eyes. ‘Tommy, if they want to keep it a secret, why the fuck would they tell me?’
‘Because of your smooth tongue? Because they like you? Because you’re a sodding policeman?’
‘Yeah, well, I was talking to one of them tonight, a guy called O’Leary, but he’d only open up so much.’
‘What about the Thai police? Are they any help?’
‘Don’t seem interested. But I did have a look at their file on Horvitz’s murder, and guess what: the card on the chest is exactly the same.’ Wright heard the chink of glass against glass. Reid was obviously pouring himself another drink.
There was a knock at the door. Wright went over to answer it, but realised he was naked and hurried to the bathroom for a towel.
‘Hold on a minute, Tommy,’ said Wright. He pulled open the door.
Jim Bamber was standing there, an easy grin on his face. The grin disappeared when he saw that Wright was on the phone.
‘Fuck me,’ said Wright.
‘But you’re so far away, darling,’ said Reid, giggling.
‘Not you, you soft bastard. Jim. Jim Bamber. He’s here.’ Wright opened the door for the FBI agent. Bamber was wearing his usual grey suit and white shirt and he looked fresh and relaxed as if he’d just showered. Wright gestured at the phone. ‘Tommy,’ he mouthed.
Bamber nodded and went to stand by the window.
‘What’s he doing there?’ asked Reid.
‘Tommy wants to know what you’re doing in Bangkok,’ said Wright, closing the door.
‘The second murder,’ said Bamber.
‘Same as me,’ said Wright into the phone. ‘The second killing.’ Bamber was standing looking out of the window, his arms folded. ‘Look, tell Hunter what I’ve told you, will you? I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?’
‘Ah,’ moaned Reid. ‘Can’t you read me a night-night story?’
‘Goodnight, Tommy,’ said Wright.
‘Goodnight, John Boy.’
Wright cut the connection and put the telephone on the dressing table. ‘Sorry about that, Jim. Tommy likes to talk when he’s pissed.’
‘Pissed?’ Bamber turned around, frowning. ‘What’s he pissed at?’
‘Pissed. Drunk.’
Bamber smiled. ‘Oh, right. I get it. Two nations divided by a single language.’
‘Something like that. When did you get to Bangkok?’
‘Three days ago. I didn’t realise you’d come to Thailand. Who told you about the murder in Bangkok?’
‘Anonymous tip-off,’ said Wright. ‘Someone sent in some newspaper cuttings.’
‘So Superintendent Newton sent you to Bangkok?’
‘He’s as keen as I am that the BTP solve this case.’
‘Seems a little unusual, that’s all. An American murdered in Bangkok. Not really your jurisdiction.’
‘The two cases are obviously connected,’ said Wright. ‘It’s got to be the same killer.’
‘No doubt about it’, said Bamber. ‘That’s what I told my bosses. So what progress have you made?’
‘O’Leary’s one of four Americans who play together at a club called Cowboy Nights.’
‘Near Lang Suan. I know.’
‘Yeah, there’s Dennis O’Leary, a guy called Doc Marshall who’s sort of the group leader, Bernie Hammack and Sergio Ramirez. And the victims both played with the band. Not together, Eckhardt left before Horvitz arrived, but they all knew each other in Vietnam, twenty-five years ago. They were all Tunnel Rats, fighting the Viet Cong underground.’
Bamber raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. ‘You’ve found out a lot in a short time,’ he said.
‘I was lucky,’ said Wright. ‘I saw a photograph of Eckhardt with the band in Cowboy Nights, and I managed to get O’Leary to talk to me a little. We’ve both had woman troubles. And he’d been drinking. What about you? What have you found out?’
Bamber adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. ‘I’d pinned down the Tunnel Rats connection. Our Washington office checked up on the service records of both men and discovered they’d served together for a time towards the end of the war. I haven’t approached the four surviving members in case one of them is the killer.’
‘What?’ said Wright, stunned.
Bamber frowned. ‘Hadn’t you considered that? It seemed obvious to me. Either Marshall, Hammack or Ramirez could be behind the murders. O’Leary we can rule out because of the chair, but the others are definite suspects. Immigration is doing a check for me to see if any of them were out of the country at the time Eckhardt was killed.’
Wright sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘But whatever it was that happened twenty-five years ago, they’ve all kept the secret. Why start killing now?’
‘I don’t know, Nick. But I did find out something else. They’re all going back to Vietnam. Back down the tunnels. All except O’Leary, of course.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure. All I know is that they’ve already applied for their visas and have booked tickets on Wednesday’s Thai flight to Saigon.’
‘How the hell did you find that out?’
‘We’ve had them under surveillance,’ said Bamber.
Wright rubbed his eyes. ‘This is crazy, Jim. If one of them is the killer, why would he want to go back down the tunnels?’
‘Maybe he wants to finish the job.’
‘So why would the other two go? Why put themselves in harm’s way?’
Bamber opened the minibar. ‘Okay if I have a soda?’ he asked. Wright nodded. Bamber took out a can of Sprite and popped the tab. He sipped it. ‘Nick, you’re asking questions that I don’t have the answers to. But I know for sure that the solution lies down in the tunnels. We have to go, Nick. It’s the only way we’re going to solve this case.’
Wright’s jaw dropped. ‘You have got to be joking!’ he exclaimed.
Bamber drank from his can. ‘It’s the only way,’ he said.
Wright shook his head emphatically. ‘O’Leary said there were hundreds of miles of tunnels, all the way from Saigon to Cambodia. How are you going to find out where they’re going?’
Bamber grinned, crushed his empty can and tossed it into a wastepaper bin. ‘I’m getting a map sent over. The Defense Department mapped a big chunk of the tunnel network, and the mission that Horvitz, Eckhardt and the rest went on was recorded. I’m getting the file pulled from the Pentagon, and it and the map are being sent over to our office here.’
‘And you’re going down the tunnels?’
‘Not just me. We. It’s going to take two, Nick. I need you down there with me.’
Wright swallowed. His mouth had gone completely d
ry. ‘I’m not sure if I’m up to it,’ he said.
Bamber looked at him levelly. ‘You want to solve this, don’t you? That’s presumably why you came.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘There are no buts. The answer lies down in the tunnels. That’s where they’re going and that’s where we have to go. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Wright, reluctantly.
Bamber walked over to stand in front of Wright. The detective looked up at him. For a wild moment he thought that the FBI agent was going to strike him. The feeling was so strong that he had to force himself not to flinch. ‘I mean it, Nick. I need you on this. I need you to be one hundred per cent committed.’
‘I am,’ said Wright, more sure this time.
‘Good man. I’ll arrange the tickets. I’ve already got my visa for Vietnam, I can pull a few strings to get yours done quickly. I’ll need your passport.’
Wright got his passport from his dressing table and handed it to Bamber.
‘One more thing,’ said the FBI agent. ‘Keep a low profile for the rest of the time you’re in Bangkok. Don’t go back to Cowboy Nights, don’t speak with The Jazz Club, or the police. And don’t mention me to anybody. I don’t want anyone to know that the FBI’s involved.’
Wright nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘Be ready to leave on Wednesday.’
Wright nodded again. His stomach began to churn.
Bamber went over to the door. He made a gun with the fingers of his hand and pointed it at Wright. He made a clicking noise, then let himself out.
Gerry Hunter sat down at his desk and drank from a can of 7-Up.
‘Anything good in the canteen?’ asked Steve Denning, a middle-aged DS with a thickening waistline and a tendency to snack on Mars bars during periods of stress.
‘If there was, I missed it,’ said Hunter, massaging his stomach.
‘What did you have?’
‘Sausage and chips, but I’m regretting it. Anyone call for me?’
Denning shook his head but pointed at a wire basket on the desk next to Hunter’s. ‘Fax came for you, though.’
The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books) Page 27