Dragon Breath

by Valerie Goldsilk

  “And no passengers had boarded the plane yet when this explosion occurred?”

  “No, this was a regular commercial flight from Beijing to Bangkok and onwards to London and it was scheduled to depart at 2330 hrs. It was not public knowledge that the upstairs cabin had been booked for the Chinese President and his entourage who is on his way to a summit meeting in Britain.”

  “Bob, is it common practice for senior Chinese government officials to fly on commercial airlines?” Mary-Lou asked.

  “Yes, I believe so. There is no equivalent to the US President’s Air Force One so when someone like Jiang Jemin or Li Peng make trips outside the country they would generally take one of the national carriers.”

  “Thank you, Bob. So, what we have is a catastrophic explosion at Bangkok Airport in Thailand damaging a plane on which the Chinese Head of State was due to fly out a few hours later…”

  John McHardy was surprised. The explosion had happened too early. They had missed their target. He muted the TV again and carried on cleaning out his filing cabinet. What could have gone wrong? Marco was usually reliable. He planned everything with care and methodology. But after all this was Thailand and Marco would have had to use other people to place the devices.

  McHardy reached into his briefcase and retrieved the small Ruger pistol he’d favoured for a long time. He removed the magazine, thumbed the top round, bouncing the spring in the clip, worked the action a few times, replaced the magazine and shot the same round into the chamber. Better safe than sorry. He had a neat Bianchi holster that clipped to the inside of his waistband.

  Half an hour later he left the house, locking the door carefully. He placed the cabin bag on the back seat of the Cherokee and the laptop on the passenger seat. Suspiciously he glanced around the driveway. The trees cast much shadow. An unusual smell came to his nostrils. He paused for a second, puzzled.

  A sudden rustling noise alerted him to the danger but the attack came too fast. A dark shape rolled rapidly out from under the car and sprang to its feet knocking McHardy against the wing mirror. The American lost his balance and while he was struggling for a hand or foot-hold, his arms flaying against his attacker, a silk scarf was swiftly wrapped around his neck.

  Before he could work out what was happening he was kicked in the small of his back and dropped to his knees, choking against the cloth that was cutting and pressing at his windpipe. His brain froze for a few precious moments but then old battle instincts re-emerged and a strange dispassionate analysis took place in a part of his mind that seemed to be removed from the death struggles of the rest of his body. He knew he had only short seconds to react. His hands were free and his assailant was directly behind him.

  John McHardy had only one chance as he was choking to death. He found the Ruger in its holster. His thumb flicked off the safety catch, his other hand grabbed what he thought was the thigh of his enemy. McHardy thrust backwards and pressed the tip of his gun into the flesh behind him while pulling the trigger repeatedly. There was an instant reduction of pressure around McHardy’s throat which he exploited by twisting out of his attacker’s grasp allowing him to find a better target for his bullets. He fired four more furious shots, that found their mark in the dark strangler’s chest and face.

  Ten seconds later it was all over. McHardy panted with exertion and the black-garbed Sikh lay dead at his feet, his features a hideous mangled mess.

  The American looked at his watch, sheathed the Ruger, kicked the dead man hard in the ribs to release his tension, and clambered into his Cherokee. It was high time to get out of Dodge. Danger had tracked him to his doorstep. But there was still enough time for a brief act of revenge.

  Once he’d reversed out of the drive-way he picked up his mobile phone and punched in the numbers that would connect him with Marco, the South African.

  * * * *

  The mobile phone was playing its tune. Doris scrabbled in her handbag and found the device.

  “Wai?” she answered.

  Jim was watching CNN but the sports news didn’t interest him. There was a knock on the door and when he went to open it he found the swarthy Sergeant called Topgun standing outside with a stern expression on his face.

  “Can I wash my hands?” the policeman said. Jim nodded and watched as Topgun went into the bathroom and cleaned what looked like dark brown stains off his fingers. Maybe his car had broken down.

  “You have some documents?” Topgun asked as he dried his hands on one of the small towels from the rack.

  As they turned back into the bedroom Doris confronted them. She looked shocked and she was still holding her mobile.

  “Some men have kidnapped my friend’s uncle.”

  “Where?” Jim gasped.

  “Some men, three of them ran into the restaurant and pointed guns at everybody and took him away?”

  “Who?” Topgun said calmly. He already had his phone out of his pocket and was waiting call it in.

  “Not here,” the girl said, realising what he was doing. “It happened in Bangkok. Just half an hour ago. She doesn’t know what to do.”

  Jim said, “Is this Henry Chan, that’s been kidnapped?”

  Doris nodded. The three of them looked at each other.

  * * * *

  It was still mid-afternoon and Margaret Rose sat in her London office over an un-eaten sandwich and a bottle of fresh orange juice. She was shocked at the latest information that had just come in from her various Asian stations. She had an eight-inch portable television tuned to the BBC World news and was waiting for corroboration of her intelligence.

  Somebody had just tried to blow up the Chinese’s Premier’s plane. By good fortune or last minute intelligence an international incident had been avoided. The Thai Prime Minister had apparently delayed Jiang Jemin in the VIP area of Bangkok airport and his scheduled boarding had been delayed by one hour. Margaret wanted to know more but the facts were sketchy and short of sending out frantic encrypted emails or yelling down the phone—both of which she’d already done—there was nothing more to do but wait before she could consider further analysis or possible implications. Bangkok Head of Station was a young Oxford graduate whose parents had lived in Thailand all his life and he was both fluent in the language and conversant with the culture. He was already out there with his team greasing policemen’s palms.

  It made sense of course. There was a power play going on in the senior levels of the Chinese leadership. They’d been tracking it for many months, the tensions between the hawks and the doves, and keeping a particular eye on Zhu Tsu because he appeared to be committed to creating a conservative power-base with senior generals of the military. Jiang Jemin’s death in the bombing of his plane would have been the trigger point for a possible coup d’etat. Margaret wanted to know what was going on now. How was the Chinese leader reacting and was he even aware that he’d been the victim of an assassination attempt by one of his closest associates?

  Margaret wanted to call Brigadier Wee to get his impression. She felt sure he’d have men close to the source and would know what was going on around the Chinese Premier by now. The BBC coverage moved on to the latest breaking news. Margaret fingered her remote and watched images of the burnt plane in Bangkok’s Don Muang Airport. There was tangled wreckage, a scattering of fire-engines and uniformed men stood around gesticulating.

  A knock on the door announced her assistant, a fresh-faced probationer who spoke with a strong Northern accent. The service had begun crossing the class barriers in the early eighties and now only the older generation still communicated in the plummy tones of the public school-educated old boy elite.

  “Urgent communication. Another one, Margaret. This one looks even worse than the Bangkok one.” Her assistant held a sheet of paper which would have come up from the Comms Centre. He appeared in awe of the words he was holding.

  “What is it?”

  “A small nuclear device has gone off in California,” he said.

  “Give me that.” Margar
et snatched the communication from his fingers.

  As usual the information was scanty because it had been sent as a matter of urgency. As in Bangkok the men and women on the ground would already be working on obtaining and verifying hard facts which would be followed by preliminary interpretations.

  “A major act of terrorism on US soil. That’ll have the Americans going ape-shit,” the assistant commented. Margaret tersely told him to get on with whatever he was supposed to be working on.

  She re-read the information. A small nuclear device had exploded in the desert of Central California. So far there seemed to be no indication of any casualties but it was a remote location and the assumption was that it had specifically chosen for a demonstration of power rather than a potential blood-bath. If you wanted carnage you’d blow up a device in downtown San Francisco. Although that might be uncomfortably close to Chinatown. And Margaret had an idea that although proximity to Chinatown was relevant it was not geographic but organisational.

  The nuclear device had left a crater of destruction half a kilometre in diameter. Fall-out was restricted to only twenty kilometres which indicated it was a relatively clean and sophisticated device. The President of the United States was already on his way to the Western seaboard.

  Half an hour later the BBC picked up on the story and Margaret begun getting some visuals of the event. Mostly it was long-shot pictures of an arid yellow landscape and American talking heads starting the speculation and stirring up feelings of panic and patriotism.

  Chapter 20

  Once they got up on the tollway the traffic was light and Julian floored the accelerator while keeping a keen eye out for policemen on motorbikes. Scrimple sat next to him, visibly shaken by the kidnapping in which he’d just taken part.

  In the back lay Henry Chan, trussed and gagged, a black silk hood over his head, more to disorientate him than to avoid identifying his captors. Bill Jedburgh rested a boot on Chan’s thigh, keeping his Glock pistol loosely trained on their captive.

  “Ran as smoothly as a Longine watch,” Julian commented as he slipped the Toyota they’d acquired for the job between a lorry and a van. Thais didn’t hold much truck with the rules of the road and you had to stay sharp if you were moving swiftly along the highways. Indicating was mostly ignored.

  They headed out in the direction of Bang-na which was also the way to Pattaya, Chonburi and Rayong although their destination was closer. Every once in a while there was a whimpering from the Chinese man and Bill would prod him with the muzzle of the Austrian automatic.

  “That little bodyguard won’t be doing much work again in future,” Julian said.

  “Had to scare the living daylights out of the rest of them so we could be sure to get away,” Bill said.

  “Hope he has a sister or wife he can send to work in the go-go bars. He won’t be the family breadwinner anymore.” Julian grinned and stamped down on the brake as a Mercedes cut them up. “You are a nasty piece of work, fella.”

  “Spare me the bleeding hearts speech. You know the score. Anyway let’s keep it stumm until we get to the place and start work on this little wanker.” Bill leant forward and patted Scrimple on the shoulder. “You okay there. Been a bit quiet?”

  The policeman nodded. “First time for me. We did a bit of hostage training but…”

  Bill laughed. “It can give you a real buzz.”

  “I’m buzzed. No concerns about that.”

  “Next exit from here,” Bill reminded Julian.

  Once off the raised tollway and down the exit ramp, it took them only a few twists and turns before they found themselves on a dark, country road. The occasional building loomed up in the car’s headlights. This was a factory suburb and at night it was quiet and deserted. Street lights were few and far between. Julian slowed down to avoid a ghostly shape running across the road. Eventually they reached their destination, pulling up in front of high steel gates. Scrimple had the key to the padlock and undid the chain, pushing open only the one gate to allow the Toyota ingress.

  The yard was muddy and stacks of lumber filled at least half of the space.

  “Padlock the gate again. We don’t want any unexpected visitors,” Bill instructed.

  “What’s this place?” Julian asked. The headlights were still on, providing the only illumination. Only Bill had been here before when he did the recce for the operation and arranged for the use of a deserted location.

  “Disused furniture factory. The owner is Chinese of course but he has no idea we’re renting the place for a night.” Bill unpacked the gear from the boot of the car and indicated for Scrimple to help carry it.

  “Right, and now for our guest of honour.” Bill reached in and grabbed Henry Chan by the front of his crumpled jacket pulling him out. Chan wasn’t a heavy man but he was limp with fright. Julian took one of the Chinaman’s arms and between the two of them they frog-marched him to a small door. Scrimple followed them with the suitcase. Bill opened the door with a set of keys he retrieved from his pocket, then he flicked a light switch. They moved along a dimly-lit corridor and came out into a large open space which smelt of damp, rotting timber. Bill found the light switches and flicked half of them.

  Along the opposite wall were more stacks of lumber, but these were cut into smaller pieces and in the middle of the room stood the machines which would have done the cutting. They were crude work-benches with circular saws built into them. A workman would run his wood along the work bench to cut or trim as required.

  Bill indicated a crude table in a corner and they manoeuvred Henry Chan into one of the chairs standing around it, then his hands were cuffed behind him to the struts.

  “Nice place for a bit of carpentry,” Julian said reaching into the rucksack he’d brought with him and extracting three cans of Chang beer and a pile of home-made sandwiches.

  “Where can I go for a piss?” Scrimple asked.

  “Down that corridor but hold your breath. It’s only a hole in the ground,” Bill said, sitting down and reaching for one of the cans.

  Suddenly a muffled voice came from behind their captive’s hood. “Please let me go. I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you a million dollars to let me go. Whoever is paying you can’t be paying you that much.”

  Bill raised his eyebrows and took a bite of what turned out to be an excellent paté de foie gras on whole-wheat bread.

  “You make these, Julian?”

  “No, the French cook.”

  “You live the best life, old fellow.”

  “No point in depriving yourself.”

  Bill turned to the prisoner and leaned forward. “What did you say Mr. Chan? Was that Hong Kong dollars, or US dollars or possibly Australian dollars?”

  “Anything, anything…any dollars. Don’t hurt me. I’m an honest man,” the muted voice could be heard.

  Bill said, “I’m not going to argue that one. Honest or not you are a nasty scheming choggie bastard.”

  “You are English? Why do you do this?”

  “What nationality we are is irrelevant here, Mr. Chan. The fact is that we are not Chinese—of blood or of race and that means we would have been excluded from your little plan. The one you’ve been plotting for the last how many months.”

  “What plan? I have no idea. We were just a group of businessmen meeting to discuss normal things.”

  “Well, that’s a lie we are here to disprove.”

  Julian had found a standing fan and plugged it in so that the humid, stagnant air began to circulate. He went back to his beer and sandwich. Scrimple returned buttoning up his jeans, an anxious expression on his face.

  “So what happens next, Mr. Chan, you may ask,” Bill said, standing up now and prodding the back of his captive’s head with the muzzle of the Glock to emphasise his words. “We’re going to sit here and ask you some questions and if we think you’re answering them honestly we’ll be pleased. And if we think you are fibbing then we’ll be angry. And when we’re angry you will feel the awesome majesty of intense
pain administered by my colleague here.”

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” Henry Chan whined.

  “Oh, yes you do,” Bill whispered close to where the man’s ear should be.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not the right answer.”

  “You can beat me for ever but I don’t know the answers you want,” the Chinese man said now, somewhat defiant.

  “We’ll see about that. Now tell me. You are Chinese and you are proud to be Chinese? Am I right?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you think and tell your friends in the privacy of your own company that Chinese people are superior to other races. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t say that.”

  “But you believe it.”

  “I am Chinese and we have much culture and tradition.”

  “But you believe that other races are inferior.”

  “What is it you want me to say?” Chan complained in a weaker voice.

  “Just tell me what you believe. We’re just getting started here.”

  “No, I believe all people are equal. I do business with men from all countries. I am a Hong Kong person. We care about making money.”

  “Well, at least that last part is true. You care about money first and being Chinese second.”

  “Whatever you want me to say,” the muffled voice said in resignation.

  “What I want you to say is what is true. Here’s another question for you. Do you believe that Taiwan belongs to mainland China and the Taiwanese have no claim to being an independent nation.”

  There was silence from Henry Chan. Finally he replied, “Many people believe it is better there should only be one China. Hong Kong and Macau have proved it is better to be part of the motherland.” There was a note of insolence and pride in the statement.

  “Now we are getting somewhere. So what have you been doing to show your friends the extent of your patriotism?”