The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

Hunter reached over and retrieved the stack of pages. There were almost two dozen in all. Miss Blackstone had done him proud. There were photocopies of articles from several encyclopedias and selected pages from military history books and biographies.

  He read through the pages and from time to time he made notes in the margins and underlined words and phrases that he thought might be significant. Hunter himself hadn’t even been ten years old when South Vietnam fell, and for him the conflict was as distant an event as the First and Second World Wars. Many of the references to people and events meant nothing to him.

  Gradually Hunter began to build up a picture of Operation Phoenix and its significance. It came towards the end of the war, when it was clear to most commentators that the United States wasn’t capable of winning by conventional means. The army thought that a change of tactics might produce results, and in 1968 Operation Phoenix was born. The aim was to identify and target specific members of the Viet Cong infrastructure: its fighters, its political cadres and its rank and file members. It was initially set up as a means of pooling intelligence information, which up until then had rarely been shared. The Americans didn’t trust the South Vietnamese, and vice versa, and both sides guarded their intelligence jealously. Operation Phoenix set up official guidelines on how information was to be shared, and once targets had been identified they were arrested and interrogated. Some eighty Operation Phoenix offices were set up around South Vietnam, collating information with the aid of computers.

  If proven to be Viet Cong sympathisers, targets would be either imprisoned or persuaded to change sides. It was, Hunter realised, the same technique that the British had used against the Provisional IRA in the ’seventies. In Northern Ireland the technique had paid dividends, with a number of notable successes, but in Vietnam, Operation Phoenix was regarded as a failure. There were allegations of torture and assassination, and time and time again Operation Phoenix was described as a front for government-sponsored assassination. Included among the photocopies were articles from American newspapers alleging that Operation Phoenix was primarily an assassination plot and that the CIA was targeting individual members of the Viet Cong and murdering them. All such allegations were denied by Defense Department spokesmen. The official view was that any deaths were the result of military action, not assassination.

  According to some of the articles Miss Blackstone had photocopied from encyclopedias, Operation Phoenix wasn’t regarded as a success because of all the negative publicity it generated, but it did come close to achieving its objectives. In 1968, almost 16,000 Viet Cong cadres and fighters were either captured, killed or switched sides. In 1970 the number was 21,000, and US intelligence experts estimated that over the four years that Operation Phoenix was underway, the Viet Cong infrastructure was reduced by a total of almost 75,000 men.

  Nowhere in the information Miss Blackstone had sent was there any mention of the ace of spades death card. Wally Matthau had said that Special Forces had used the card, but there was no mention of Special Forces involvement in Operation Phoenix.

  By the end of June 1972 all American advisers had been pulled out of South Vietnam, and a few months later the Saigon government ended Operation Phoenix.

  Hunter sat back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. What did he have so far? He had a dead middle-aged American, tortured and killed in London with a card impaled in his chest which had been used as a death card in the Vietnam War, and another in Bangkok which Wright was following up. Eckhardt had served in the Vietnam War. Had he come into contact with the soldiers using the death cards? Had Max Eckhardt himself been involved in Special Forces operations in Vietnam? Jim Bamber would probably be able to find out, but until Hunter could get in touch with the FBI agent he’d have to pursue his own line of enquiry, and the dead man’s widow seemed the best bet. He picked up his coat.

  ‘I’m going to see Eckhardt’s widow,’ he told Denning.

  ‘You want company?’ asked the detective sergeant.

  ‘Nah. If Jim Bamber calls for me, tell him he can get me on my mobile.’

  Denning gave him a thumbs-up without taking his eyes off his computer screen.

  Hunter drove to the Eckhardts’ flat in Maida Vale and parked in front of it. He walked down the path and peered at the doorbells. None bore the name Eckhardt. He took his notebook out of his raincoat pocket and checked the address. It was the right building. One of the bells didn’t have a name attached to it and he pressed it hopefully. There was no response and he didn’t bother pressing it again. Hunter heard a noise behind him and he turned to see a postman walking down the path pushing a mail cart. He showed the postman his warrant card and asked about May Eckhardt.

  ‘Haven’t had anything for them in a few days,’ said the postman. ‘I think they’ve moved.’

  ‘Did they leave a forwarding address?’

  The postman shook his head and began slotting letters through the communal letterbox. ‘You could try asking old man Jenkins, Flat Two. He’s the local busybody.’

  The postman pushed his trolley back down the path and Hunter pressed the bell for Flat 2.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked a disembodied voice.

  ‘Police,’ said Hunter.

  ‘Your name, please,’ said the voice.

  ‘Gerry Hunter. Inspector Gerry Hunter.’

  ‘Hold your warrant card up to the camera behind you, please,’ said the voice.

  Hunter did as asked, suppressing a smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the voice. The door lock buzzed. ‘You can come up.’

  Hunter pushed open the door and went upstairs. He knocked on the door to Flat 2 and it was opened by a man in his seventies.

  ‘Are you Mr Jenkins?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the old man, scrutinising Hunter through narrowed eyes. A security chain prevented the door from being opened more than a few inches. A dog yapped from somewhere behind him. ‘Hush, Katie,’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s only the police.’ The dog continued to bark.

  ‘Can I have a word with you about one of your neighbours?’ said Hunter.

  Jenkins undid the security chain and opened the door for Hunter. The flat stank of vomit and disinfectant and the detective wrinkled his nose at the smell.

  ‘First on your right,’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s about the Eckhardts, I assume,’ he said as he followed Hunter into the sitting room. It was akin to stepping into a time warp. The wallpaper, carpets and furniture all seemed to be relics of the 1950s, clean but shabby. A gas fire surrounded by a green-tiled fireplace hissed like a deflating balloon and in the corner a six-foot-tall grandfather clock ticked off the passing seconds. ‘Sit down, please,’ said Jenkins, indicating a green velvet sofa that had worn bare in places.

  Hunter sat down. Jenkins was wearing a blue dressing gown and tartan slippers, one of which had a hole in the toe through which poked a gnarled, yellowed toenail.

  ‘I spoke to a Sergeant Wright some time ago,’ said Jenkins. ‘Of course, he wasn’t a real policeman. Transport Police, he was.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Hunter.

  ‘He was a rum sort,’ said Jenkins. ‘I couldn’t understand why a transport policeman was involved in a murder investigation.’ He drew out the word ‘murder’ as if reluctant to finish saying it.

  ‘The body was found in a railway tunnel,’ explained Hunter.

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ said Jenkins. ‘But murder requires real police work, doesn’t it?’ Again he drew out the word ‘murder’ as if relishing the sound.

  A bell tinkled and Jenkins flinched as if he’d been slapped. ‘My wife,’ he explained. ‘She needs her medicine.’

  Hunter felt suddenly sorry for the old man, living out his final years with a yappy dog and an invalid wife. It had been more than six months since Hunter had seen his own father, the detective realised. Six months was way too long. He sat and listened to the hissing gas fire and the ticking clock until Jenkins returned carrying a Yorkshire terrier. He perched on the edge of an armchair at the side of
the fire, his back ramrod straight.

  ‘So do you happen to know where Mrs Eckhardt is?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘Haven’t seen her for a few weeks. Her car’s not outside so I presume she’s moved. Is she a suspect?’

  ‘We just want to ask her a few questions,’ said Hunter. ‘Did she leave a forwarding address?’

  ‘Not with me. As I told Sergeant Wright, the landlord or the managing agent might know. The agent’s name and address is on the noticeboard by the front door.’

  ‘What about her furniture? Did a removal van call?’

  ‘Didn’t see one, but I think they rented the flat furnished.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where she might have gone?’

  Jenkins stroked the Yorkshire terrier behind the ears. ‘Maybe she went home to China,’ he said absentmindedly.

  ‘China?’ said Hunter. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘She was Chinese. Didn’t you know? Spoke perfect English, but she was Chinese.’

  ‘Are you sure she was from China?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘Well, she was Oriental, no mistaking that, but she wasn’t Japanese, I’m damn sure.’ The old man shuddered. ‘I spent two years in a Japanese POW camp so I know what bloody Japs are like.’ The old man shrugged. He looked suddenly older and there was a faraway look in his eyes as if his mind was elsewhere.

  Hunter stood up. He thanked Jenkins for his help and shook his hand. His grip was surprisingly strong for a man of his years, and the memory of it and the smell of sickness stayed with Hunter for the rest of the day.

  Kruse settled back in the taxi and closed his eyes. His meeting with Nick Wright had taken a completely unexpected turn and he had a lot of thinking to do. He’d gone to Wright’s hotel room intent on killing the British detective, but the phone call had put paid to that. Kruse couldn’t risk being associated with Wright’s death, whether or not it looked like an accident. Tommy Reid might have an alcohol problem, but he wasn’t stupid. The idea of taking Wright with him to Vietnam had come out of the blue, but Kruse was used to thinking on his feet and he knew it made perfect sense. Down in the tunnels anything could happen, and there’d be no witnesses. Getting a visa for Wright at short notice wouldn’t be difficult: anything could be obtained in Bangkok for a price, and Jody Meacher had made it clear that money was no object.

  Kruse went over the conversation he’d had with Wright, looking for any slips he might have made. He hadn’t liked having to lie about getting information from the Pentagon, because that could be checked, but it was the only way he could think of explaining how he knew about the service records of the members of The Jazz Club. And he needed an explanation for the map that he’d taken from O’Leary’s house. Suggesting that one of the surviving members of The Jazz Club might be the killer had been a flash of brilliance. It would keep Wright off balance, trusting no one.

  The question of who the killer was still troubled Kruse. His thirty-minute conversation with O’Leary had provided no clues. Kruse knew exactly what had happened down the tunnels a quarter of a century ago, and he understood why the men needed to go back, but he didn’t believe in ghosts and he didn’t believe that dead men waited twenty-five years before coming back for revenge. The killer was real, flesh and blood, and Kruse knew that when the men went down the tunnels, the killer would be going too. Kruse smiled to himself. The witnesses would be there, the killer would be there, and the detective investigating the case would be there. And once Kruse had finished his work, all would be dead and buried deep below the earth. It was perfect, so perfect that the anticipation was almost painful.

  The loud knocking on Wright’s door woke him from a dreamless sleep, the taste of vomit still at the back of his mouth. ‘Yeah, who is it?’ he called. There was no reply and the banging continued. Wright wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door.

  Two policemen in dark brown uniforms stood there. The taller of the two was wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses. He spoke to Wright in Thai.

  Wright frowned. ‘You’ll have to speak English,’ he said.

  A third figure moved into view behind the two policemen. Somchai. He looked worried. ‘They want you to go with them, Mr Nick,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ queried Wright.

  ‘They won’t say.’

  ‘Tell them to wait while I get dressed,’ he said. He moved to close the door but the smaller policeman stuck out his arm and held it open.

  As he dressed, Wright looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock in the morning. He’d only slept for two hours after Bamber had left and he was exhausted. He ran a hand over his jaw and wondered if he should shave, but the policeman in sunglasses made an impatient clicking sound and motioned with his hand for Wright to hurry up, so Wright threw on his jacket and followed them down the corridor.

  A white police car and a uniformed driver were waiting outside the hotel. Wright got into the back with the smaller of the men; the one with sunglasses climbed into the front. A garland of purple and white flowers and a small gold Buddha in a transparent plastic case hung from the driver’s mirror. Wright knew it was pointless to ask any questions so he stared silently out of the window as they drove through the crowded streets.

  It wasn’t until the car turned into the small side street that Wright realised they were heading for O’Leary’s house. Three other police cars and a Jeep were parked haphazardly outside the building, red lights flashing on their roofs, and two brown-uniformed police motorcyclists in knee-high boots and white helmets were talking to a small group of onlookers, obviously telling them to keep back.

  The car stopped behind the Jeep and the cop next to Wright pointed at the front door. Wright got out of the car, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d liked Dennis O’Leary, and this amount of police activity could only be bad news.

  Colonel Vasan was in the main room, standing by O’Leary’s desk and watching two uniformed officers rummage through the drawers. They weren’t wearing gloves, Wright noticed. Vasan looked across at Wright, then turned his head away, deliberately ignoring him. Wright waited by the door, not wanting to walk across the room without being asked.

  After several minutes Vasan walked over, his gleaming black boots squeaking on the wooden floor. He stared at Wright through the lenses of his steel-framed spectacles, but said nothing. He was, Wright realised, trying to intimidate him with silence.

  Wright smiled. ‘Is there a problem, Colonel Vasan?’ he said.

  The colonel said nothing. He nodded at a uniformed officer who was standing by the kitchen door. The officer opened the door and ushered out the maid who’d admitted Wright the previous night. She’d been crying.

  The colonel spoke to her in Thai. She looked at Wright and nodded tearfully. He said something else to her and she hurried back into the kitchen and closed the door.

  The colonel scratched his pitted cheek and studied Wright with hard eyes. ‘Why were you here last night?’ he said.

  ‘I wanted to talk to Mr O’Leary.’

  ‘About what?’ Any pretence that Vasan wasn’t able to speak English had disappeared.

  ‘About the murder of Eric Horvitz. They played together in a band. Horvitz was a singer, O’Leary—-’

  ‘Played guitar. Yes. I know the connection between the two men.’

  ‘Was there an ace of spades?’ asked Wright.

  Deep furrows appeared on Vasan’s forehead.

  ‘On the body. Was there an ace of spades?’

  ‘How did you know he had been killed?’ asked Vasan. ‘I didn’t say he had been killed.’

  Wright sighed patiently. ‘The maid’s in tears, your men are all over the place and there’s no sign of a robbery.’

  Vasan glowered at Wright. ‘You are quite wrong,’ he said. ‘There has been no murder.’

  A sudden thought struck Wright and he caught his breath. ‘He didn’t kill himself, did he?’

  Vasan shook his head. He turned his back on Wright and walked towards the door to O’Leary’s bedroom. W
right followed him. Vasan pushed upon the door. A uniformed officer was going through O’Leary’s wardrobes, patting down the pockets of his clothes. Another policeman stood guard at the open door to the bathroom. Vasan motioned for Wright to take a look.

  O’Leary was sprawled on the floor next to the toilet, his head up against the wall, his neck at an awkward angle. The belt to his trousers was undone and his flies open. The wheelchair was on its side, next to the bath. The man had soiled himself in death and Wright put his hand over his mouth, trying to block out the smell of urine and faeces.

  ‘Mr O’Leary had been drinking?’ said Vasan.

  ‘Yes. Almost a full bottle of whisky.’

  ‘He was trying to use the toilet. He must have overbalanced.’

  ‘It certainly looks that way,’ said Wright.

  ‘Bathrooms can be dangerous places, even for those who aren’t in wheelchairs.’

  Wright tried to remember where he’d left O’Leary’s wheelchair when he put the man to bed. Had it been within reach? Had O’Leary woken up, levered himself into the chair and rolled himself into the bathroom? It was possible, he decided. An ugly, unnecessary accident. Guilt washed over Wright. He’d allowed O’Leary to get drunk in the hope that he’d talk. Encouraged him, even. He was partly to blame for the man’s drunken state, and that meant he was partly responsible for his death.

  ‘Is there something on your mind?’ asked Vasan, looking at Wright over the top of his spectacles.

  ‘It seems such a waste,’ said Wright, backing out of the bathroom.

  The colonel stroked his chin. ‘Did you obtain anything useful from him? During your talk?’

  ‘No,’ said Wright. He went through the bedroom. The policeman who had been going through the wardrobes was slipping something into his own pocket. Wright flashed a look at the colonel, but Vasan appeared not to have noticed what the man was doing.

  ‘According to the maid, you were with him for almost an hour.’

  ‘Thirty minutes, at most.’

  They went through to the main room. More uniformed policemen arrived, all with holstered guns and radios on their belts. They were walking around and examining O’Leary’s possessions as if they were at a jumble sale.