The Tunnel Rats

by Stephen Leather

  He crossed the road and walked down on to the beach, where Manville bought a copy of the Bavkok Post from a newspaper vendor. Spread out across the vendor's table were a number of Thai newspapers, and several had photographs of a corpse splashed across them. The Thai newspapers were even worse than their British counterparts when it came to running blood and gore. Manville bent over the table to get a better look.

  The largest of the photographs was of a light-skinned bearded man, his mouth a bloody mass and his eyes staring lifelessly at the camera lens. It looked as if the man was lying on his back, but as he looked more closely Manville realised that he was actually spreadeagled against a wall and that the picture had been twisted around for reasons of space. There was something familiar about the corpse. Not the face, but, the injuries and the position of the body.

  Manville frowned and gathered up copies of all the papers that carried the photograph, paid the vendor and went across the sand to a row of deckchairs. He sat down under a faded red and yellow striped umbrella and spread the Thai newspapers over the sand. An old Thai woman with skin like an old leather briefcase came over and asked him what he wanted to drink. Manville asked for a Singha beer, his eyes fixed on the newspapers. He flicked through one. There were more photographs on the inside pages. In one of them, a playing card was impaled on the victim's chest. Manville lifted the paper up and stared at the card. He couldn't make out what it was.

  'Hello, Jack,' said a voice.

  Manville looked up. It was Poonsak, an eighteen-year-old Thai boy whom Manville had known for several years. Poonsak knew him as Jack, as did most of the underage boys whom Manville took back to the short-time hotel. Poonsak had grown too old for most of the sex-tourists who visited Pattaya, and now made a living procuring younger boys.

  'Hello, Poonsak. Come here, will you?' Poonsak squatted down next to Manville's deckchair. 'Translate this for me, please.' Manville tapped the headline and story around the picture of the brutalised corpse.

  Poonsak put his head on one side as he read through the story. 'It say farang was killed. Someone cut him, very bad.' He looked up but saw from Manville's face that he expected more. He looked down at the paper again and tugged at his lower lip as he read. 'His name is Eric Horvitz. He's an American. He had a place for children with no parents.’

  'An orphanage?’

  'Yes. An orphanage. He was found in the haung tai din. The basement. The basement of the orphanage. He was tortured, with knives. Somebody cut off his dick and put it in his mouth.' Poonsak pulled a face. He peered at the photograph as if to confirm that that was indeed what had been done to the man, and grimaced.

  'What does it say about the playing card?’

  Poonsak read through the article. 'An ace of spades. It was stuck on a knife that had been stuck into his chest. Police say they think it was maybe a drugs killing.’

  'Why do they say that?’

  Poonsak read more, then shook his head. 'It not say, Jack.’

  'When did it happen?’

  'The body was found yesterday. They not know when he was killed.’

  Manville flicked through the Bangkok Post. The English language newspaper was generally less salacious then its Thai rivals. It seldom printed gory photographs and tended to hold back on the details of murders and rapes. He found the murder story on page three, with no photograph. There were only a dozen paragraphs giving details of the victim and his orphanage. The playing card was mentioned right at the end of the story, but no significance was attributed to it.

  'Did you know him?' asked Poonsak.

  The old lady brought Manville's beer to him on a battered tray. He took it and smiled his thanks. The woman gave him an ice-cold wet towel and he wiped his face and neck before handing it back to her with another smile.

  'No,' said Manville. 'No, I didn't know him.’

  Poonsak stood up, brushing sand from the knees of his jeans. 'Do you want me to get you a friend tonight? I know a new boy, only just arrived in Pattaya. Almost a virgin.’

  Manville chuckled. According to Poonsak, virtually every boy he supplied was as pure as the driven snow. 'No, thank you, Poonsak. I'm fixed up tonight.’

  Poonsak smiled. Manville patted him on the back of the leg. He really was a delightful boy. Pity he'd grown so quickly. Poonsak's smile widened and Manville realised he'd misunderstood the gesture. Manville shook his head and took away his hand. The teenager shrugged and wandered away towards a group of Scandinavian tourists who were paddling in the surf.

  Manville gathered up the newspapers. He knew now why the photographs had seemed familiar. There'd been a similar murder back in England a month or so previously. A circular had passed across Manville's desk from a British Transport Police detective describing a torture-killing in South London and requesting details of any similar murders. Manvillehad drawn a blank and had replied on behalf of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. There had been several vicious drugs-related killings in Plymouth but the injuries didn't match those of the London murder, and no playing cards were involved.

  Manville began tearing out the articles. He'd put them in the post when he got back to the UK. That'd be the best and safest way of passing on the information. He didn't want to have to explain why an unmarried chief inspector was holidaying alone in Thailand.

  Dean Burrow walked across the grass, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his cashmere overcoat. Over to his right two Secret Service agents stood by a nondescript saloon parked behind his limousine. A third agent walked some distance behind him. Washington at night wasn't the safest of cities, but Burrow had wanted some fresh air and the Memorial was as good a place as any to meet Jody Meacher. Sirens wailed in the distance, three police cars by the sound of it. Burrow shivered. It was a full moon but he only saw glimpses of it as thick grey clouds scudded across the night sky. He stepped on to the cobbled path that led down to the Memorial and walked by the metal lecterns containing the books listing all those who had died during the Vietnam War. Not long after the slabs of black marble had been erected, Burrow had spent hours poring over the books, checking that the names of the friends he'd lost during the war were included, then he'd gone to the Memorial and satisfied himself that their names were carved there and that they'd been spelled correctly. There had been no omissions, no mistakes.

  The black marble glistened in what little moonlight managed to filter through the clouds. It was the simplicity of the Memorial that made it so effective. Just a list of names. Burrow wondered what the tourists made of it, the Europeans and the Asians and the Arabs who came to photograph it because it was on the list of things to see in Washington, a ten-minute stop on a tour of the nation's capital. To them it could be nothing more than a list of names, but to Burrow and to the rest of the nation's veterans, it was something far more poignant, far more meaningful. It represented legs blown off by landmines, heads splattered by snipers' bullets, chests crushed by exploding mortars. Countless images of dismemberment and death flashed through Burrow's mind as he walked past the marble slabs and their silent roll call.

  A lone figure stood midway down the Memorial. There was no mistaking Jody Meacher's massive profile, swathed in a dark overcoat the size of a small tent. Meacher continued to stare at the Memorial as Burrow approached. 'What a waste,' he said.

  'The war, or the Memorial?' asked Burrow.

  'The deaths,' said Meacher.

  'What would you have done, Jody? Negotiated?’

  Meacher shook his head. 'Who knows, Senator? Twenty-twenty hindsight is a wondrous thing. What's past is past. It's the future we have to be concerned about.’

  He held out his hand, his eyes still on the Memorial. Burrow reached inside his coat and took out the Polaroid photograph with a gloved hand and gave it to Meacher. Meacher studied it for several seconds, then pocketed it. Burrow opened his mouth to protest but Meacher shook his head.

  'Leave it with me, Senator.' His hand reappeared from his pocket and he stroked his greying beard thoughtfully. '
Eric Horvitz, you said?’

  'That was the name on the UPS package. And it's him in the photograph. Whoever.it is, they're not going to stop, Jody. They're going to keep--’

  'It's going to stop, Senator,' interrupted Meacher. 'Don't worry.’

  The Secret Service agent who was following the senator had stopped some fifty feet away, though his head still swivelled from side to side and periodically he mumbled into his hidden microphone.

  Burrow arched his back and rubbed his knuckles into the base of his spine. 'I should get more exercise,' he complained.

  'We all should,' agreed Meacher. 'But we don't always do what's good for us.' ' ‘

  Burrow began to walk along the path, and Meacher fell into step beside him.

  'The Vice President will be stepping down within weeks, Senator.’

  Burrow's eyebrows shot up and he stopped walking. 'You know that for sure?’

  'From the horse's mouth. Well, the horse's doctor's mouth. The cancer is growing faster than they'd thought and the Vice President wants to spend more time with his family.’

  'Jesus,' said Burrow, shaking his head sadly.

  'Don't feel too sorry for the man, Senator. At least he knows it's coming; at least he's get time to put his affairs in order and say goodbye properly. Most of us don't get the chance.’

  Burrow began walking again. 'I was at Kristine Ross's funeral today,' he said.

  'It had to be done, Senator. There's too much at stake.’

  'I know, I know.' They walked in silence for a while, their breath feathering in the night air. 'How many so far?' Burrow asked eventually.

  'Four. Including your secretary.’

  'Who were the other three?’

  Meacher hesitated as if reluctant to answer the question, then shrugged almost imperceptibly. 'A journalist and his wife. And a policeman.' Burrow put a hand up to his forehead. 'A policeman? Oh God.’

  'Policeman, secretary, dental hygienist, their career path doesn't make any difference, Senator. All that matters is that this doesn't get out. The policeman was getting close.’

  'How were they killed?’

  'Need to know, Senator. And you don't need to know.’

  'That may be, Jody. But I want to know.’

  'It's not in your best interest.’

  'Damn you,' hissed Burrow. 'I deserve to know. He's doing it for me.’

  The two men stopped walking again. Meacher stared at Burrow for several seconds, then nodded. 'It was an accident,' he said. 'I mean it was made to look like an accident. No one will ever know different.’

  'And it was the same guy who killed Kristine?' Meacher nodded. 'Who is he, this man?’

  Meacher turned away from the senator and began walking towards the Secret Service agent. The agent mumbled into his hidden microphone and headed back along the path. 'That really is need to know,' said Meacher.

  'At least tell me something about him.’

  'He was in Special Forces. His specialty was to make his assassinations look like accidents. Falls, car crashes, food poisoning. Now he works for me and a few other individuals who have need of his particular skills.’

  The senator looked incredulous. 'The army has people like that?’

  'Hopefully you'll never know half of what goes on in the military,' said Meacher. 'There are black departments in the Pentagon that answer to no one. Not even the President.’

  'So how does this guy end up working for you?’

  'A friend of his was killed in Saudi Arabia. Iranian suicide bomber, remember? Killed a dozen Marines.’

  'I remember.’

  'This guy found one of the men who'd planned the operation and tortured him until he gave up the names of the other two men in his cell. Then he doctored their car, fixed it so it'd crash when it hit sixty miles an hour. Worked perfectly, but when the car spun out of control it crashed into a Mercedes being driven by a member of the Saudi royal family. A prince. The prince ended up in hospital with a broken back. The military pulled their man out and sent him back to the States.

  'How much have you told him?’

  'The bare minimum to ensure that he gets the job done, Senator.’

  They left the memorial behind and walked by the lecterns. The Secret Service agent was now off to their left. 'And what is his job, Jody?’

  'His instructions are to take care of anyone who discovers your secret. It's open ended.’

  'So he'll go to Bangkok?' - ‘

  'Once we're sure that the London situation is under control, yes.’

  They walked by the bronze sculpture of three war-weary American soldiers. 'What if whoever it is comes after me, Jody?’

  'You're a US senator. You're well protected.’

  'So why am I being sent these pictures?’

  'To scare you.’

  'It's working.' They walked together back to the road. 'Can I give you a lift, Jody?' asked Burrow, nodding at his limousine.

  'No, thank you, Senator. I'm going to walk for a while.’

  'Are you sure? Washington's a dangerous place at night.’

  Meacher smiled thinly. 'Not just at night time, Senator.' The two men shook hands, then Meacher walked away as gracefully as a galleon under full sail.

  Nick Wright lay on the folded-out sofabed, staring up at the ceiling. It had been one hell of a day. In between handling his regular caseload, his efforts to track down May Eckhardt had come to nothing. Neither the managing agents nor the owner of the Maida Vale flat had had a forwarding address for her. He'd contacted British Telecom but an extensive search hadn't produced a new telephone number for a May Eckhardt anywhere within the United Kingdom. He'd spent the best part of two hours trying to obtain a National Insurance number or tax reference for her, but without success. He wasn't sure what else he could do.

  He sat up and ran his hands through his unkempt hair. The cardboard box containing his late father's train set was by the side of the sofa. Wright had tried to speak to Sean on the phone more than a dozen times but Janie had insisted that he wasn't at v home. First he was at school, then at piano practice, then at a friend's house. After nine o'clock in the evening all he got was the engaged tone. Janie had left the phone off the hook.

  Clive Edmunds's funeral had taken place late in the afternoon, and it had been a depressing affair, hardly better attended than the funeral of Max Eckhardt. Wright and Reid had represented the British Transport Police, and there had been a dozen Met officers, including Gerry Hunter. There had been no relatives, and no grieving widow.

  Wright swung his legs off the sofabed and went over to the stereo. He put a Muddy Waters CD on and turned the volume down so as not to disturb Reid in the adjoining bedroom. His harmonica was on the shelf above the CDs and he stood by the fireplace, playing softly. He figured that if he was feeling depressed, he might as well play the blues.

  Len Kruse was midway through his second set of press-ups when the telephone rang. He locked his elbows. Naked except for his khaki boxer shorts, his body was bathed in sweat, though his breathing was steady, his chest barely moving. He supported his weight with his right arm and reached over with his left to pick up the telephone from the bedside table. 'Yes?' he said. 'Are you alone?' It was Jody Meacher.

  'Yes.' Kruse lowered himself so that his chest was only inches from the carpet. His arm muscles bulged but there was no sign of strain on his face.

  'There's been another event,' said Meacher. 'In Bangkok.' Kruse pushed himself up until his arm was rigid. 'Can you send me details?’

  'You'll have them tomorrow. Have things stabilised in London?' 'Everything's under control. I'll book my ticket.' 'It might be a good idea to get a visa for Vietnam while you're in London. Just in case.’

  'Agreed.' Kruse replaced the receiver and continued his press-ups, increasing the pace until the muscles in his arm began to burn. The pain didn't bother Kruse. In fact, he welcomed it.

  Gerry Hunter parked his car as close as he could get to Clive Edmunds's house. None of the houses in the str
eet had garages, and it was early evening so he had to walk almost a hundred yards to the front door. Hunter had been surprised on two fronts when the solicitor had telephoned: surprised that Clive had actually made a will, and even more surprised that he'd made Hunter joint executor of it. For a man whose life appeared to be in a constant state of disorganisation, Clive had organised his death down to the last detail. He'd even paid for a burial plot in a graveyard in North London and listed the hymns that he wanted to be played at his funeral. He had a hefty mortgage on his house, but even so, his assets, including two life insurance policies, came to more than a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, the bulk of which he'd left to his three nieces in Australia. The will stipulated that Hunter take anything from the house that he wanted and arrange to have the rest sold or given to Oxfam.

  Hunter had put off going there for as long as he could, but j the solicitor had called to say that a buyer had been found for ^ the house so Clive's belongings had to be cleared out. He slotted the key into the lock and pushed open the door. The air was stale 1/ and Hunter grimaced. He closed the door behind him and stood r in silence for several minutes. The red light on the answering ?? machine was blinking and Hunter realised that he'd forgotten to have the telephone disconnected. He pushed the 'play' button. It was a girl from a local video rental store, asking Clive to return a video. Apocalypse Now.

  Hunter went through into the sitting room and knelt down in front of Clive's video recorder. He rifled through the cassettes stacked on top of the recorder but most of them were tapes that Clive had recorded himself. There was no sign of Apocalypse Now. He pressed the 'eject' button on the video recorder but no tape emerged from the slot. Hunter drummed his fingers on the top of the machine and looked around the room. He stood up. His fingertips were smeared with dust and he wiped them on the back of the sofa. He checked the sideboard, the bookcase, and the cupboard on which Edmunds kept framed photographs of his parents and his brother's family. There was no videotape.