The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘And you learned nothing of interest?’

  Wright was determined not to tell Vasan anything. Nothing he’d seen so far had suggested that the colonel was anything other than incompetent. Even if O’Leary’s death was an accident, there was no excuse for allowing so many men to be trampling around the house. ‘He confirmed that Horvitz had no enemies, and he couldn’t think of any reason why anyone would want to torture and kill him. The rest of the time we talked about music.’

  ‘Music?’

  Wright nodded at the two guitars. ‘He played guitar. He was good, he played with Eric Clapton once.’

  ‘Eric Clapton? Who is Eric Clapton?’

  ‘A famous guitarist. It doesn’t matter.’

  Vasan nodded. His hand rested on the butt of his gun as if reassuring himself that it was still in its holster. ‘So you talked about music, then you went back to your hotel?’

  Wright shrugged. ‘That’s about it.’

  Vasan stared at Wright, who held the colonel’s gaze. ‘I would prefer that you inform me in advance of any future interviews you wish to conduct,’ Vasan said eventually. ‘I would like one of my investigating officers to be present.’

  ‘I have no problem with that.’

  A uniformed policeman picked up one of O’Leary’s guitars and strummed it. Vasan looked across at the man, but there was no trace of annoyance on his face.

  ‘In my opinion you would do best to visit our temples,’ said the colonel. ‘Maybe go and see the pretty girls we have in Pat Pong, then go home.’

  Wright ignored the suggestion. ‘Is it okay if I leave now?’ he asked.

  ‘My men will drive you back to your hotel,’ said Vasan. He turned his back on Wright and went through to O’Leary’s bedroom, his shiny black boots squeaking like hungry rats.

  Tim Marshall was updating the medical records of the patient he’d just seen when the intercom on his desk buzzed. ‘Yes, Ma-lee?’ he said, storing the file.

  ‘There are two men to see you, Dr Marshall. They don’t have an appointment but they say they are friends. Mr Hammack and Mr Ramirez. I have asked them to wait in reception.’ Ma-lee had only been with the surgery for three weeks and was already proving herself an asset. She was university educated and spoke good English, and wasn’t in the least intimidated by farangs.

  ‘Thank you, Ma-lee, you can show them in.’

  A few seconds later the door to his consulting room opened and Bernie Hammack and Sergio Ramirez came in, both men visibly shaken. ‘It’s Dennis,’ said Hammack as he closed the door. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What!’ said Doc. ‘What happened?’

  ‘An accident, according to the cops,’ said Ramirez. ‘We went around to pick up the map and the police were all over the house.’

  ‘Seems he was drunk and he fell out of his chair trying to use the toilet. Broke his neck.’

  Doc sat back in his chair and ran his hands through his thinning hair. ‘Shit. Poor Dennis.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘There’s no doubt about this? About it being an accident?’

  ‘They seem sure,’ said Hammack.

  ‘Just a lousy coincidence?’

  Ramirez sat down on a low sofa by the window. ‘I don’t think it is a coincidence, Doc. Max, Eric, now Dennis. What are the odds, huh?’

  ‘Pretty extreme, I’d say,’ said Doc. ‘But if it’s the same killer, why make it look like an accident? He tortured Max and Eric, ripped their bodies apart and left a calling card. Why go to all the trouble of making Dennis’s death look like an accident?’

  ‘None of this makes any sense,’ said Hammack. ‘Question is, what do we do now?’

  ‘Did you get the map?’

  ‘They wouldn’t let us into the house. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to look.’

  There was a small red birthmark on the back of Doc’s neck and he scratched it, deep in thought. Ramirez and Hammack sat in silence, waiting.

  ‘We don’t need the map,’ Doc said eventually. ‘We can find our way back.’

  ‘We’re still going?’ asked Ramirez.

  ‘We took a vote,’ said Doc.

  ‘I think we should make a stand here, in Bangkok,’ said Ramirez. ‘On our turf. If it is him, if he has come back, I’d rather face him out in the open.’

  ‘We took a vote,’ Doc repeated, a harder edge to his voice. ‘We go back.’

  Ramirez’s jaw tightened and for a moment it looked as if he was going to argue, but then he relaxed and nodded. Doc looked at Hammack. The black man nodded, too.

  ‘I’m pretty sure I can remember the layout. What about you, Bernie?’

  ‘Ain’t never gonna forget,’ said Hammack. He grinned and his gold tooth glinted at the side of his mouth.

  ‘Sergio?’

  The Latino sighed. He nodded slowly. ‘I might have trouble finding the entrance, but once I’m down there, I’ll know my way around.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘A map would have been nice, though.’

  ‘Like Bernie said, we don’t even know where Dennis kept it.’ Doc stood up. ‘I’m getting the visas tonight. We fly out tomorrow at eleven. We’ll pick up the equipment we’ll need in Saigon.’

  ‘What about weapons?’ asked Ramirez.

  ‘We won’t need them,’ said Doc. He stood up. ‘The only thing we’re going to find down there is a skeleton.’

  ‘I meant for the snakes and stuff. The VC might have moved out, but the wildlife’s going to be well entrenched by now. Scorpions, rats. The works.’

  Doc nodded. He took off his white coat and hung it on the back of the door. ‘There’s no way we can get guns through the airport, and I wouldn’t know where to go about buying them in Vietnam. We can get knives in Saigon, that’s about it.’

  ‘I’d feel happier with a gun, Doc.’

  ‘I hear you, Sergio, but I don’t see how it’s going to be possible.’

  ‘And if he’s not down there, Doc,’ said Hammack. ‘What then?’

  ‘Let’s cross one bridge at a time, gentlemen. One bridge at a time.’

  Nick Wright spread the typewritten sheets over the bed. There were more than twenty in all. They had been delivered by a young uniformed policeman who had demanded five thousand baht before handing them over. Wright hadn’t had enough cash in his wallet and he’d had to go to an ATM to withdraw Thai money. The officer turned out to be a motorcycle policeman and he’d offered Wright a lift. It had been almost surreal, driving through the traffic along Sukhumvit Road, riding pillion behind a traffic cop. The policeman had even turned on his flashing red light, forcing traffic to pull to the side to allow them to pass. After he’d withdrawn the money, the cop had driven him back to the hotel, and laboriously written out a receipt before taking the money and handing Wright the manila envelope containing the translated reports. He’d even saluted Wright.

  Wright was surprised at the thoroughness of the reports. There was a summary of the post mortem, and the injuries were identical to those of Max Eckhardt’s. The body had been discovered by a nun just after breakfast, and there was a statement from her and from the rest of the nuns in the orphanage including Sister Marie. Neighbours had also been interviewed, but to no avail. No one had seen or heard anything unusual. There was a breakdown of Horvitz’s financial situation and photocopies of bank statements from Thai Farmers Bank and Bangkok Bank. Horvitz had had almost a quarter of a million dollars on deposit. There had been no major withdrawals before or after Horvitz’s death. Extortion or robbery had been ruled out as a motive. Doc had been interviewed, but not the other members of The Jazz Club. Doc had told Vasan as little as he’d told Wright on their first meeting. Wright could find nothing in the report about the playing card, other than in the description of the crime scene. Vasan had obviously decided that it wasn’t a clue worth following up.

  He went over to the minibar and took out a can of lager and a can of Sprite and mixed himself a shandy. Wright stood looking out of his window as he drank. A group of bare-chested children were running around a corrugated-iron sh
ack, laughing and giggling. Wright wondered what Sean was doing. He looked at his watch. It was just after two o’clock in the afternoon. Back in London, Sean was probably getting ready for school.

  He sat down on the bed and began to read through the translated reports again, hoping to find something that he’d missed on his first reading. If he could come up with a clue as to who the killer was, maybe he wouldn’t have to go down the tunnels.

  He toyed with the idea of phoning Hunter, but remembered that he’d already asked Tommy to update him on what he’d found out so far.

  There was a knock on the door and Wright went over and opened it. Jim Bamber stood there, a black holdall in one hand.

  ‘How’s it going, Nick?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Wright. He closed the door and handed the typewritten sheets to the FBI agent. ‘Colonel Vasan sent over a translation of his file on the Horvitz killing, but there’s nothing of any use.’

  ‘Did you really expect there to be?’ asked Bamber. He unzipped the holdall and handed Wright his passport and a folder containing an airline ticket.

  Wright opened his passport and flicked through it. The Vietnam visa filled an entire page, blue writing with a large red seal.

  ‘The guys are flying out tomorrow morning on Thai Airways. We’re booked on the flight after them. It’s Vietnam Airlines, I’m afraid, but there’s no way we can travel on the same flight.’

  Wright picked up his glass of shandy. ‘Jim, I’m having second thoughts about going down the tunnels.’

  ‘We’ve no choice,’ said Bamber. ‘The answer to the murders is down there. We have to go.’

  Wright began to pace up and down in front of the window. ‘Look, you know I’m claustrophobic. You know the state I was in when you switched off your torch in the tunnel. Think how bad I’m going to be underground.’

  Bamber grinned. ‘I think I’ve solved that,’ he said. He reached into the holdall and pulled out what looked like a bulky pair of binoculars. He handed them to Wright. There were two lenses and an adjusting knob, and a black rubber facepiece with webbing straps to hold it in place. ‘It’s a nightsight.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Wright had used something similar on night-time anti-vandal surveillance operations. ‘But they won’t work underground.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They work by gathering what light’s available and amplifying it. Starlight, whatever. But underground there’s a total absence of light. Nothing to amplify.’

  Bamber shook his head. ‘That would be true for the passive systems, but these operate on infra-red. They’ll work. Took me ages to find. I’ve got two sets, plus a stack of batteries. Has the bathroom got a window? Try them in there.’

  Wright went into the bathroom, switched on the light and closed the door. He put the goggles on and adjusted the straps, then switched the unit on. It took ten seconds or so to warm up, whining in a high-pitched tone that was almost out of his hearing range, then the eyepieces flickered and he had a white-flecked green view of the bathroom. He switched off the light and moved his head from side to side. They were heavy and the view was initially a little disorientating, but they worked.

  ‘Yeah, they work,’ he shouted.

  ‘Should hope so,’ said Bamber.

  Wright opened the bathroom door. ‘How long do the batteries last?’

  ‘The guy said six hours. That probably means four.’

  Wright took off the headset. ‘How long are we going to have to be underground?’ he asked.

  ‘Twelve hours or so, max.’

  Wright’s mouth opened in surprise. He wondered if he’d misheard. ‘Twelve hours?’

  ‘Twelve hours, maximum. But probably less.’

  ‘Twelve fucking hours!’

  Bamber held out his hand. ‘I’ll look after them until we get there,’ he said.

  Wright gave the headset to the FBI agent. ‘Jim, I can’t stay underground for twelve hours.’

  ‘That’s what it’s going to take,’ said Bamber. ‘The main tunnel complex is about two miles from the entrance they used. It’s a communications tunnel, but it’s the only way to the complex. The only way that’s been mapped, anyway. Down in the tunnels you can make about half a mile an hour. And that’s assuming we don’t make a wrong turn along the way. So it’s going to take about three hours just to get there.’ He put the headset into the holdall.

  Wright pressed his glass against his cheek. ‘Twelve hours,’ he said.

  ‘Twelve minutes, twelve hours, twelve days. It takes as long as it takes, Nick. Do you want to crack this case or not?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘So we go down the tunnels. We find out what’s so important that Marshall, Hammack and Ramirez feel they have to go back after twenty-five years.’

  Wright nodded. ‘Yeah. You’re right.’

  ‘I know I’m right. You’ll be just fine. And I’ll be with you every step of the way. It’ll be a walk in the park, Nick.’

  Wright drained his glass. Despite Bamber’s confidence, he was gripped by an overpowering feeling of dread. He smiled weakly. ‘If you say so, Jim.’

  Gerry Hunter was putting on his coat ready to go home when Steve Denning shouted across to him that he had a call.

  ‘Who is it?’ called Hunter.

  ‘FBI,’ said Denning. ‘Guy called Harris.’

  Denning transferred the call to Hunter’s extension. ‘Hiya, Ed. Thanks for calling back,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, sorry I didn’t get back sooner,’ said Harris. ‘It took longer than I thought. Can I just confirm the spelling of this guy’s name. B-A-M-B-E-R, right? First name James?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Hunter.

  ‘In that case, we have a problem,’ said Harris. ‘There’s only one agent of that name in the FBI, and he’s a twenty-year veteran working out of our San Francisco office. I spoke to him an hour ago.’

  ‘So the James Bamber who’s been part of our murder enquiry team is an impostor?’

  ‘Looks that way, Gerry. You saw his ID, right?’

  ‘Not personally, but I’m sure it must have been looked at somewhere along the line. This doesn’t make any sense. Why the hell would anyone want to sit in on a murder enquiry that’s going nowhere?’

  ‘Maybe he wants it to stay that way,’ said the FBI agent. ‘Look, we’d like to speak to this guy, whatever his motives. If nothing else, it’s a federal offence to pass yourself off as an FBI agent. Have you got an address?’

  ‘He checked out of his hotel last week. I haven’t a clue where he is now.’

  ‘What about fingerprints? Have you got anything he touched? A cup, a typewriter?’

  Hunter looked around the incident room. Bamber had only visited the room twice and he couldn’t recall him touching anything, and the hotel room would already have been cleaned. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Hunter. ‘If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.’

  Hunter replaced the receiver and slipped off his coat. He slumped down into his chair and ran his hands through his hair. There were so many strands to the investigation that his mind couldn’t cope with them all. He picked up a pen and a sheet of paper. He wrote the name JAMES BAMBER at the top. Underneath he wrote MAX ECKHARDT. Then MAY ECKHARDT. Then ERIC HORVITZ. Underneath that he wrote the name of his dead partner. He stared at the five names and chewed the inside of his lip. James Bamber, an American claiming to be with the FBI. Max Eckhardt, an American brutally murdered. An American who had served in the Vietnam War. A playing card impaled on his chest that had been used as a death card by American Special Forces. May Eckhardt, an Oriental girl married to the victim, vanished. Clive Edmunds, dead after renting a Vietnam War movie. No sign of the video cassette. The cassette disappears, so does Jim Bamber. Hunter drew an arrow connecting Bamber to Edmunds. Was the timing coincidental? He remembered Eckhardt’s boss Reynolds saying that Edmunds was going to check with Bamber for details of Eckhardt’s Vietnam record, and he shuddered involuntarily. He drew another arrow betwee
n Bamber and May Eckhardt. Were their disappearances connected in some way? He drew a third arrow linking Bamber to Max Eckhardt, and a fourth between Bamber and Horvitz. Was Bamber the killer? Was his desire to be part of the murder enquiry some perverse voyeurism? He underlined Bamber’s name several times. Hunter had a growing sense of dread, a fear that perhaps his partner’s death wasn’t a tragic accident.

  He drew a circle around May Eckhardt’s name. Where had she gone? Had she too been killed? He wondered if it would be worth getting a search warrant and giving the flat a going over, but decided against it. If she had moved out, the landlord would have checked the premises. Besides, Jenkins had said that her car was missing, so presumably she’d driven away.

  ‘You okay, Gerry?’ asked a Welsh voice.

  Hunter looked up to see Colin Duggan scratching his fleshy neck.

  ‘That guy Bamber, apparently he wasn’t with the FBI. I’ve just been on to their London bureau and they’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Duggan. ‘Who the hell is he?’

  ‘No idea. But he had to have some reason for hanging around.’

  ‘Jesus, they say that murderers always return to the scene of the crime, but this is the first time I’ve heard of one joining the investigating team. Put a couple of guys on it, will you? Unless you fancy taking it on?’

  ‘I want to chase up May Eckhardt. She’s gone AWOL, too.’

  Duggan ran his hand over his bald patch. ‘What a fucking mess,’ he said. ‘This Bamber, it was the BTP that brought him in initially, right? Nothing to do with us?’

  Hunter nodded. ‘Newton introduced him,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a memo somewhere saying that we should offer him every assistance.’

  Duggan winked at Hunter. ‘Not our fault, then, huh? If the shit hits the fan we’re in the clear. Dig out the memo and send it to me, will you?’

  As Duggan left the room, Hunter went over to a HOLMES terminal and logged on. He pulled up the interviews that Nick Wright had done with May Eckhardt and read through them. There was nothing untoward and the BTP detective had done a professional enough job. There were no details of her family, but according to the background, she’d studied at Exeter University. Hunter looked at his watch. It was too late to call the registrar’s office, he’d have to do it first thing in the morning.