Wright reached over and turned to the last page of the map. There were only two chambers drawn; a large one linked by a short length of tunnel to a second, smaller, room. The only writing on the sheet was the words ‘FOURTH LEVEL’.
‘That’s obviously where they’re going,’ said Bamber. ‘It must have been important to be so far underground.’
‘How far below ground is this?’ asked Wright, tapping the page.
‘Fifty-five feet, I guess.’
Wright sat back and closed his eyes. He rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes, the prelude to a major headache. ‘O’Leary mentioned booby traps,’ he said.
Bamber folded up the sheets and slotted them back into the map case. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll be ahead of you. If there are any problems, I’ll come across them first.’
Problems sounded innocuous; problems sounded like small obstacles that could easily be overcome. O’Leary hadn’t said problems, he’d said booby traps. ‘What sort of problems?’ asked Wright.
‘Punji sticks in pits.’
Wright opened his eyes. ‘What?’
Bamber smiled easily. ‘Nick, we’ll be following Doc and the rest. They’ve been down there already, they’ll have exposed any traps.’
‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘They’re almost fifty years old. You think they’d be putting their lives at risk if they didn’t think they could handle it?’
‘Maybe,’ said Wright, unconvinced. ‘Is there anything else I should worry about?’
Bamber put a hand on Wright’s shoulder. ‘It’s going to work out just fine,’ he said reassuringly.
Wright looked out of the window. They drove through a small village, on the outskirts of which was a school, little more than a long single-storey building and a dusty playground surrounded by a waist-high metal fence. Groups of young children in blue and white uniforms lined up in front of an open doorway while a teacher carried out a head count. It reminded Wright of the orphanage in Bangkok, and the basement where Eric Horvitz had died. He wondered what it must have been like, dying in a cold dark place, tortured and killed, begging for mercy and receiving none. He shuddered.
Doc pulled in at the side of the road and took a map out of the holdall strapped to his petrol tank. Hammack and Ramirez stopped their bikes either side of him. Doc flipped up his visor and studied the markings on the map. He checked his milometer and ran his finger along the thin line that represented the road they were on. He looked across the rice fields to a lone hill, a bump in the landscape that was much the same shape as the conical hats that the peasants wore.
‘Much further?’ asked Ramirez, using his sleeve to wipe away the red dust which had coated his visor.
‘About an hour,’ said Doc. ‘Then we leave the road. There’s a track that leads to the river. According to the map it’s three miles from this road. Once we reach the river, we should be able to find the entrance.’
‘You think we’ll be able to find it, after twenty-five years?’
‘We’ll find the rock formation. That won’t have changed,’ said Doc. ‘And then all we’ve got to do is to find the rock that we put over the hatch. It’s not going to be a problem, Sergio.’
Hammack rubbed his arms. ‘My arms are going numb,’ he complained. ‘Makes you miss the old Hueys, doesn’t it?’
‘You’ll be telling us next that you miss the war,’ said Doc.
Hammack shook his helmeted head. ‘No fucking way,’ he said.
Doc put the map away. ‘Okay?’ His two companions nodded. Doc put the bike in gear and roared off.
While Gerry Hunter waited for the woman in the registrar’s office to call him back, he went over to make himself a coffee. He picked up the wrong mug by mistake, then realised with a jolt that it was Clive’s. He stared at the chipped white mug with its map of Australia on one side and a grinning kangaroo on the other, wondering what to do with it. It was too personal to throw away, but he didn’t want anyone else to use it. He took it back to his desk. He still expected Clive to walk into the incident room at any moment, cursing the London traffic or the weather or the canteen food or whatever it was that was annoying him that day.
Hunter picked up his telephone and dialled Anna Littman’s number. Even as the phone rang out, Hunter wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say to her, and when she answered the words tumbled out in a rush.
‘Anna, look, this is Gerry. I know this is crazy and I know you’ll say that I’m clutching at straws and that I’m making something out of nothing, but is it in any way possible that Clive’s death wasn’t an accident?’
For several seconds she didn’t speak. ‘Gerry, you know what I’m going to say,’ she said, her voice a concerned whisper.
‘I know, I know. I want to feel that I’m doing something, I want to have someone to blame, I can’t accept that sometimes shit just happens. I know the drill. I get it all the time, Anna, people who’ve lost their nearest and dearest and who aren’t prepared to accept that it was an accident. They’re convinced that it was an arsonist and not a faulty electrical heater or that someone tampered with the brakes and it wasn’t just carelessness that sent the car off the road. I know, Anna, I’m not stupid.’
‘No one said you’re stupid, Gerry, but you’ve just lost a close, personal friend. More than that, a partner, someone who trusted you and relied on you. It’s only natural that you’re going to feel guilty.’
‘I know all about survivor guilt, too, Anna.’
‘So what do you want me to tell you? That Clive’s death wasn’t an accident?’
‘Is it possible?’
‘God, Gerry, how long have you been in the job? Anything’s possible, you know that. But just think what that would mean. Someone would have had to have got into Clive’s flat and forced him to drink the best part of a bottle of whisky, then forced him to throw up and choked him to death. Does that sound at all likely to you?’
Hunter put his hand up to his forehead. ‘No, of course it’s not likely. But is it possible?’
Dr Littman sighed. ‘Yes, Gerry. It’s possible. It’s also possible that I’m really a visitor from another planet and that you’re going to win the lottery this weekend. Anything’s possible. But do I think that there’s any likelihood that Clive was murdered? No, Gerry. I don’t. You’re going to have to let it go. Grief is all well and good, it’s part of the—-’
‘—- healing process, I know. I know. That’s not what this is about.’
‘What is it about, Gerry?’
Hunter considered her question. He wanted to tell her about Bamber, a man pretending to be an FBI agent. He wanted to tell her about the missing video cassette, about the ace of spades being a death card, but he knew that it wouldn’t make any sense to her. It barely made any sense to him. ‘I don’t know, Anna. It’s been a bad week.’
‘Do you want to come around and talk about it? I serve an excellent coffee.’
Hunter ran his finger down the kangaroo on Clive’s mug. ‘Thanks, Anna, but I’ll be okay.’
‘My door’s always open,’ she said. ‘Hell of a draught, but what can you do?’
Hunter laughed. When he replaced the receiver the phone rang almost immediately. It was the woman in the registrar’s office, apologising for the delay in getting back to him.
‘May Hampshire graduated in 1986, with first-class Honours,’ said the woman.
‘Hampshire?’ queried Hunter. He’d been expecting an Oriental name.
‘She was the only May in Computer Science, and I checked from 1980 right up to last year, just to be sure,’ said the woman. ‘The date of birth matches so there’s no doubt that it’s the girl you’re looking for. Oh, you’re worried about the name? I wondered about that because you said she was Chinese. Her photograph was on file and she’s definitely Oriental. Very pretty girl.’
‘Do you have her address?’
‘I do. It’s in Sale, just l
ike you said. Her parents are Peter and Emily Hampshire.’ The woman gave Hunter the full address and a telephone number. Hunter thanked her and cut the connection.
He sat staring at Clive’s mug, thinking over what Anna Littman had said, wondering if she was right when she suggested he was suffering from survivor’s guilt. He shook his head. No, there was a nagging doubt that wouldn’t go away, no matter how dispassionately he thought about his partner’s death. The missing video couldn’t be explained, not unless someone else had been at Clive’s flat. Then there was the Vietnam War connection: the movie, Eckhardt’s war service, and the ace of spades death card. All were somehow linked, he was sure of that. He needed to talk to May Eckhardt, to find out what she knew of her husband’s wartime experiences.
He dialled the number the woman had given him. Emily Hampshire answered the phone, her voice apprehensive as if she didn’t get many calls and those that she did get rarely brought good news. Hunter identified himself.
‘Mrs Hampshire, I’m actually calling about your daughter . . .’
‘May? What’s . . . ?’
‘Mrs Hampshire, please don’t worry. I just need to ask you a few questions, there’s nothing for you to be alarmed about, really.’ Hunter looked at his watch and came to a sudden decision. He could drive up to Sale in four hours or so, assuming the motorway was clear. ‘Mrs Hampshire, will you and your husband be at home this afternoon?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she said hesitantly.
‘I’d like to pop along for a chat,’ said Hunter. ‘Nothing to worry about, I can assure you. Let’s say three o’clock, shall we?’
The handlebars of Doc’s motorcycle kicked from side to side and he fought to keep the machine moving in a straight line. Ramirez and Hammack followed in single file. The track was wide enough for a car, but it was uneven and dotted with potholes. They passed a small village, a cluster of houses with corrugated-iron roofs and television aerials on poles more than twenty feet long. A group of small children rushed out to watch the motorcycles drive by. They giggled and waved and Ramirez waved back. In the middle of the village was a large hut, open at the sides. Inside more than a dozen men sat in deckchairs watching an old black and white television set. None of them noticed the Americans ride by.
Beyond the village were acres of rice paddies. Half a dozen farmers in conical hats were burning rice stalks and the grey smoke blew over the track in billowing clouds. The three Americans drove through the smoke. The smell brought back memories for Doc, memories of helicopters hovering above a village, the rattle of AK-47s and the dull crump of mortars exploding in the paddies. Huts were on fire, the thatched roofs crackling and hissing like the burning rice stalks, and from inside the huts came screams and cries for help. Doc shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts from his head. It was no time for flashbacks.
They followed the track to the river, and then headed north. The rice paddies gave way to undergrowth, and then secondary jungle, areas which had been defoliated during the war but which had been reclaimed by trees, shrubs and ground-hugging plants. Doc took a look at his milometer and slowed his bike, looking around for landmarks. Twenty-five years ago the area had been as barren as a lunar landscape.
He saw what he was looking for over to his right, a jagged spar of rock amid the trees, leaning to the side like a massive javelin that had stuck point first in the ground. Next to it was a smaller rock formation, shaped like the comb of a rooster.
Doc stopped and put his feet on the ground. Ramirez and Hammack pulled up either side of him. All three were coated in red dust. Doc flipped up his visor and pointed at the rocks.
Hammack nodded. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘You did it, Doc. You got us here.’
Ramirez looked around. ‘I never thought anything would grow here again, what with all the Agent Orange and shit they dumped and all.’
‘Yeah, must have worked its way right through the food chain by now,’ said Hammack.
Doc climbed off his bike. ‘We won’t be here long enough for it to affect us,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow lunchtime we’ll be back in Saigon drinking beer and laughing at this.’ He pushed his bike off the track and into the undergrowth.
‘Yeah, I sure hope so,’ said Hammack. He dismounted and pushed his bike after Doc. Ramirez followed.
All three men were bathed in sweat by the time they reached the sandstone rock formations. They parked their bikes and took off their helmets and gloves. Ramirez wiped his forehead with his sleeve, smearing red dust across his skin.
Doc went over to an anvil-shaped rock that came up to his waist. ‘This is it,’ he said. Hammack and Ramirez walked over to stand by him. They stood in silence, staring at the rock.
‘I can’t believe we came back,’ said Ramirez.
‘Believe it,’ said Doc. ‘We’re here.’
All three men put their shoulders against the rock and pushed. It slid slowly to the side.
‘That’s enough,’ said Doc. He knelt down and began scraping away the red soil with his hands until he found the trapdoor. Ramirez helped him and together they lifted up the wood and bamboo hatch, revealing the hole underneath.
‘We know one thing for sure,’ said Doc. ‘No one came out this way after us. They wouldn’t have been able to budge the rock.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ said Ramirez. ‘There could be lots of other ways out that we didn’t know about.’
‘Always looking on the bright side, aren’t you, Sergio?’ said Doc sarcastically. ‘Okay, let’s get our gear on.’
They went back to their bikes and untied their kitbags. After stripping off their dusty clothes they changed into T-shirts and jeans and slung their rucksacks on. Doc and Hammack pulled on soft caps made of camouflage material, and Ramirez tied a scarf of green and brown around his head. They put their clothes into the kitbags, along with their helmets and gloves and the keys to the motorcycles.
‘Okay?’ asked Doc.
The two men nodded. ‘Let’s do it,’ said Ramirez.
‘We’ll leave the kitbags down in the tunnel,’ said Doc.
They carried the bags to the tunnel entrance. All three men were breathing heavily and sweating. Hammack’s T-shirt was already soaked. They dropped their bags and stood around the hole, looking down. Doc patted Ramirez on the shoulder. ‘Do you wanna lead the way, Sergio?’ he said.
‘Happy to,’ said Ramirez.
He switched on his flashlight and sat down on the ground, swinging his legs into the square of darkness. He took several deep breaths and then crossed himself. He slid down through the hatchway, then dropped into a crouch and shuffled to the side. Doc and Hammack passed the kitbags down. Ramirez stacked them at the far side of the tunnel and then moved away from the hatch.
Hammack eased himself into the hole, his shoulders scraping against the wooden frame. He grunted, then he was through, bending his legs and crawling forward. Doc followed. He switched on his flashlight and then pulled the cover across the entrance.
‘Stop here, Chinh,’ said Bamber, pointing at a roadside shack. Chinh jammed on his brakes and they shuddered to a halt in a cloud of dust.
Wright opened his eyes. ‘Are we there?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ said the FBI agent. He opened the door and got out. ‘I figured we should get some water.’
Bamber went over to the shack where an old woman in a wide-brimmed hat was hacking away at a coconut with a machete. Wright climbed out of the taxi and joined him. In the back of the shack was a refrigerator full of cans of soft drinks and bottles of water. An old man was sprawled on a sun-lounger, his head turned to a wall. He was skeletally thin, his ribs clearly outlined through his mahogany skin.
Bamber pointed at the water and held up four fingers. The old woman gave him four bottles. ‘Do you want a Coke or something?’ Bamber asked Wright.
Wright shook his head. An ancient bus rattled down the road towards Saigon, scattering a group of scrawny chickens that had been pecking at spilled rice grains. He ru
bbed the back of his neck, trying to loosen the knotted muscles there. The sun was dipping towards the horizon. ‘How long until it gets dark?’ he asked.
‘A couple of hours,’ said Bamber. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be there well before the sun goes down. And once we’re underground, it won’t matter whether it’s night or day.’ He handed two of the bottles to Wright. ‘You okay?’
Wright smiled tightly. ‘Getting a bit of a headache, that’s all.’
‘It’ll all be over in a few hours,’ said Bamber, patting him on the back and guiding him towards the taxi where Chinh was gunning the engine impatiently.
May Eckhardt climbed out of the Isuzu and stretched lazily. The heat of the afternoon sun had been almost unbearable, even with the pick-up’s airconditioning full on, but now it was early evening and there was a soft breeze from the north. She was wearing a faded sweatshirt and blue jeans, which she stripped off and tossed into the back of the pick-up truck. She kicked off her sandals and took off her bra and pants and stood naked, enjoying the feel of warm wind on her skin. She had a sudden urge to run across the sand, to go jumping over the rocks and skipping around the trees as she had done as a child. She smiled to herself. She wasn’t a child any more and she had an adult’s work to do.
She took the blue and green holdall off the passenger seat and took out a pair of black pyjamas, the sort that peasants still wore when they were tending their fields. She shrugged them on, then tied a black and white checked scarf around her neck. The sandals she put on were old and worn, but comfortable, the soles cut from truck tyres, the strip that ran between her toes made from an old inner tube. She took a leather belt and fastened it around her waist, then attached two metal water canteens, one either side. Also in the bag was a long hunting knife in an oiled leather scabbard, and she clipped that to the back of the belt. Everything else she needed was down in the tunnels already. The only food she was taking was a ball of rice wrapped in a silk handkerchief and placed in a small cloth bag that she tied to the front of the belt. She didn’t need food to sustain her. Hate would be more than enough.
The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books) Page 32