Black Horn (A Creasy novel Book 4)

by A. J. Quinnell

  The Inspector said; ‘You must have brought it with you.’

  The Owl was the first to understand. He said, ‘Of course,’ reached down, picked up the envelope and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  The Owl kept the envelope in his pocket until they were sitting on the ferry. Then he passed it over to the Dane, it was flat and its contents were hard. Jens opened it and pulled out a black computer disk. Both men looked at it in silence.

  Then The Owl asked, ‘What do you think is on it?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Jens replied. ‘But one thing’s for sure . . . it’s not Swan Lake.’

  Chapter 41

  Do Huang was building a wall. He was a short man, but very stocky for an Oriental. The Panamanian sun was hot and he sweated, bare-chested, as he lifted the breeze-blocks and set them into the mortar. He was also hung over. He had been given his meagre pay, the evening before, and spent a large part of it on a decent Chinese meal in Panama City and a bottle of wine and, later on, too many brandies. But there was no respite from the job. The foreman was a Mexican who liked to throw his weight about, and also a formidable clock-watcher. He treated the labourers like dirt and especially Do Huang, whom he referred to sneeringly as ‘the Chink’. Do Huang would have gladly cut the man down, but work was hard to come by in Panama, or anywhere else, for that matter.

  Do Huang’s work assignment had been laid down at fifty square metres and, apart from a half-hour break for a sandwich and a glass of water, he had worked throughout the day. He had about fifteen minutes more work, when the Suzuki jeep pulled up near the building site. He turned and gave it a brief glance, and then turned again as he saw the driver getting out. He straightened up and watched as Creasy approached and gave him the customary kiss.

  Creasy said, ‘What the fuck are you doing lifting bricks?’

  Do Huang was a little shamefaced. He said, ‘It’s the only work around at the moment.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Creasy said, ‘I have a job in Hong Kong. It’s against the Triads — the 14K.’

  Do Huang’s face split with a smile of pleasure. He said, ‘Then, if you’re here and it’s against the Triads, it must pay very well.’

  Creasy told him the terms and Do Huang was impressed. He looked down at the grey breeze-blocks at his feet and his smile widened. It faded again as the foreman approached, shouting, ‘Come on, Chink! What the fuck do you think this is, a social gathering? And who is this man? Does he have authorisation to be here?’

  Do Huang glanced at Creasy and saw the look on his face and held up a hand. He said to the foreman, ‘He’s a friend from far away. He’ll stay with me for only a minute and then wait for me, while I finish my day’s work.’

  The foreman looked at Creasy and said, ‘I want you off this site in fifteen minutes and you had better not come back.’

  Creasy said, ‘I assure you, I will never return.’

  ‘It better be that way,’ the Mexican muttered.

  Do Huang turned back to Creasy and said, ‘That one is a prime asshole. Who else is in on the job?’

  Creasy went through the list of names and Do Huang said, ‘Sounds all right to me. How did you find me?’

  ‘Tom Sawyer tracked you down.’

  ‘When is the job?’

  ‘Now.’

  Do Huang thought for a moment, then said, ‘Maybe you’ll give me a lift to what they call the guest house, where I stay, and I’ll pack my bag and come with you.’ He pointed at the breeze-blocks at his feet and said, ‘Now, wait for me in the jeep. I’ll be finished with this job in ten minutes.’

  Do Huang settled the last breeze-block in its place and scraped off the mortar, and then walked across to the wicker chair where the foreman sat under a sunshade, inspecting his domain. The Mexican was large, but flabby, and when Do Huang lifted a foot and placed it on the armrest of his chair and pushed it back, the Mexican let out a roar of rage. He struggled to his feet and charged like a bull.

  Do Huang hardly seemed to hit him, but every time one of his hands or feet flicked out, they obviously hit a nerve and the Mexican crashed down. The sub-foreman came running to help, but Do Huang simply swivelled on the ball of his left foot and his left hand stabbed out with straightened fingers and the man doubled up and then pulled away. The whole thing lasted about two minutes. Creasy watched as Do Huang looked down at the semi-conscious Mexican and said, in a voice loud enough for the whole workforce to hear, ‘Think twice, before you next abuse one of the human beings who does a good day’s work for you.’

  Do Huang got in the jeep.

  ‘Where did you say we’re going?’

  ‘I didn’t. But I’m trying to locate Eric Laparte. I have a rough idea where he lives.’

  ‘Don’t say you want him on the team?’

  ‘Why not?’

  The Vietnamese shrugged.

  ‘When I last saw him, months ago, he was drinking himself to death.’

  Creasy said, ‘We’ll see just how dead he is by now. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘A few years back he bought an old planter’s house, north of here. He was living with a woman and the last I heard she had left him. Couldn’t take his boozing.’

  ‘Do you know where that house is?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Do Huang spotted the small road on the right. Creasy turned into it. They bumped along for about five hundred metres and then the house came into view. It was a typical, dilapidated planter’s house with a tin roof and a wide veranda all around it. As they parked the jeep, a dog came round the corner, barking. It was black with a white stomach and paws and a sheen on its coat, it was well-fed, perhaps a little too well-fed. She was a cross-breed, probably a stray, and aggressively suspicious.

  A voice came from a long dirty white hammock on the veranda: ‘Slinky, tais toi!’

  The dog sank on to its haunches, growling softly. Eric Laparte swung his long legs out of the hammock, stretched out of his sleep and focussed his eyes on Creasy and Do.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ he said, ‘I thought you were dead.’

  Creasy moved forward and Do followed. The man was over two metres tall and dressed only in faded khaki shorts. They could see the ribs in his thin body. He had a grey beard and lank, grey hair hanging almost to his shoulders. Above the beard, his face was as gaunt as a skull and his dark eyes were sunk deep into his head. He greeted them with the customary kiss and said, ‘I can’t offer you a drink. I don’t have any in the house.’

  Creasy glanced at Do and said, ‘That’s strange. I heard you were a lush.’

  ‘I was,’ the Frenchman admitted, ‘but I quit three weeks ago.’ He pointed at the wall surrounding the overgrown garden, ‘I threw half a bottle of tequila over that wall.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I realised I wasn’t just killing myself, I was also killing another creature.’

  ‘Who?’

  Laparte pointed at the black dog.

  ‘Slinky. I’d been on a two-day tequila binge and passed out, more or less in a coma. I must have been gone for two or three days. I woke up with Slinky licking my face and whimpering . . . it wasn’t food she wanted . . . she just wanted me to come back to life.’

  ‘And you haven’t drunk since?’

  The Frenchman shook his head.

  ‘No. I was on the road to death. I’ve given that up.’

  ‘Can you still fire a gun?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘How about a demonstration?’ Creasy said.

  Laparte turned on his heel and walked into the house. The dog remained, watching Creasy and Do with studied suspicion. Two minutes later, the Frenchman emerged, carrying a pistol in one hand and a magazine in the other. He switched off the safety and loaded the magazine. Holding the pistol in his right hand, he looked at Creasy and asked, ‘What’s the target?’

  Creasy pointed to an oleander tree fifteen metres away. ‘The flowers of that tree.’

  All of a sudden there was a blur of movement and the garden echoed to the sounds of
gunshots. One after the other they watched the flowers shatter and fall from the tree. Creasy dropped his gaze to his watch. Six seconds had passed. He turned to look at Do, who was still staring at the fallen flowers, then he walked forward and punched the Frenchman on his shoulder saying, ‘You may have been a lush, Eric, but not any more. I want you for a job — a big one.’

  *

  Two hours later, they were standing outside a plush dogs’ home and Eric Laparte was arguing with Creasy. Slinky was at his feet.

  ‘I just don’t like the people,’ Laparte said. They are not sympathique.’

  Creasy rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  ‘For Chrissakes, Eric. She’ll be pampered here. The fucking kennels are even air-conditioned! I’ll give them money to feed the bitch fillet steak every day — with a béarnaise sauce, if you want.’

  The Frenchman shook his head.

  ‘They are not sympathique. I can tell that Slinky does not like them.’

  Creasy became angry. He leaned closer to the Frenchman and said, ‘All those tequilas over all those months have bent your brain. The job pays half a million Swiss and will probably last less than a month — and you’re worrying about a fucking dog?’

  Finally, Eric Laparte gave in and, after some negotiation, he handed the dog over to the woman who had emerged from the garden, saying, ‘If I come back and find she’s not in shape, I’ll have your ass.’

  Neither Creasy nor Do Huang was surprised at the French-man’s attitude. Most of the hard men they had known had a sentimental streak, especially when it came to animals or children.

  Chapter 42

  For half an hour, the Dane sat in front of the small screen of his IBM laptop computer, tapping through the files. The Owl stood behind him, watching over his shoulder.

  Finally, Jens turned in his chair and said, ‘That disk contains the entire police files on the 14K Triads since 1948. It’s totally comprehensive. It even has computer images of the walled villa in Sai Kung which Tommy Mo uses.’

  ‘But why?’ The Owl asked. ‘After piling shit all over us, why would Inspector Lau give you that disk?’

  Jens stood up and stretched. He looked out the window across the harbour. Apart from his family, he had three passions: his computer, ferryboats, and a desire to track down the best brewed beer in the world. He said, ‘To understand Inspector Lau, you would have to be a policeman or an ex-policeman. Then you would understand the frustrations of policemen in all civilised countries, when they know who a criminal is and what crimes he has committed, but can do nothing about it. Inspector Lau’s boss was murdered by the 14K, but he cannot prove it. Tommy Mo has a complete screen around him. He never gets his hands dirty. That villa and the other properties are all owned by front companies. The Triads operate here almost with impunity. All the police ever catch are the small fry. They never get near the fat cats at the top. That’s why Inspector Lau gave us that disk . . . It’s invaluable for the operation.’

  The Owl shrugged a little sceptically.

  ‘Do you think he informed his boss?’

  ‘Yes. Not just about the disk, but also everything else. And, if my guess is correct, the Commissioner told him something like “do what you have to . . . but I know nothing about it”.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  The Dane nodded.

  ‘Yes. In fact, I can see the whole pattern. They know all about us. They have worked out that Creasy will be arriving soon with the rest of the team and that he’ll have arranged the necessary weapons. It would have been very easy for Inspector Lau to have arrested the two of us and deported us by now. The same thing applies to Creasy and the others when they arrive. The fact that he didn’t touch us indicates that they’re turning a blind eye. I think that Inspector Lau and his Commissioner would be as happy to see Tommy Mo dead as we would. Especially if we take out some of his hierarchy along with him.’ He gestured at the computer. ‘That disk contains the names of that hierarchy and every important 14K member. It details their methods and their mentalities. I’m going to reduce it to a twenty-page report for Creasy and the others.’

  The phone rang. It was Frank Miller. He had arrived with Tom Sawyer half an hour earlier. They were staying at the nearby Hyatt Hotel. They arranged to meet for a drink in the bar of that hotel at seven o’clock in the evening.

  ‘How do you like Hong Kong?’ the Australian asked, I love it.’ the Dane enthused. ‘The local San Miguel beer is not at all bad, and from my hotel window I can see a dozen ferries.’

  Chapter 43

  They were twelve. They were all men, and they were all Chinese. They sat at a round table, and as they ate dish after dish, their eyes watched each other like starving hawks. They had just started the tenth dish, lemon chicken with bamboo shoots, when one of the men gave the very slightest of groans. The others immediately all pointed their fingers at him and burst out laughing. A moment later, the tablecloth beside the man was lifted up and a young girl crawled out.

  It was a game Tommy Mo liked to play with his henchmen. The girl would be under the table before the men sat down and then, one by one, she would perform fellatio on them. The idea was that no one should show any sign on his face of what was happening. The first one to do so would normally have to pay the bill, but in this case they were dining at Tommy Mo’s sumptuous villa in Sai Kung, and so the man was spared the expense. Before the meal, which had been more of a feast, they had conducted a Triad Lodge meeting with all its ceremony and paraphernalia. The building itself was in the grounds of the villa. It was square-shaped with four gates. Each gate was guarded by mythical generals known as the ‘four great faithful ones’. Their emblems were on the wall beside the gates.

  The ceremony had been held to initiate a new member into the Triad Lodge. It was an important coup because he was a very wealthy Hong Kong businessman who had several companies listed on the Hong Kong Stock Exchange. He also had considerable influence in Beijing. He would in no way be involved in the more violent aspects of the 14K, but would be a hidden asset. His benefits would derive from the 14K’s widespread intelligence network and its ability to apply violence against a competitor when necessary.

  The initiation had gone well. He had been coached for many weeks about the form of handshakes, the ceremonial robes worn by the office bearers and the significance of the red wooden cask filled with rice. He was word perfect in the thirty-six oaths taken with the ritual drinking of a mixture of blood and wine. The blood had come from the middle finger of his left hand and from that moment, if any 14K member asked him where he lived, he would reply, ‘In the third house on the left.’

  Next to the cask of rice was the red club for punishing those members who erred from the rules and the sword of Loyalty and Righteousness. Next to that, a symbolic abacus on which the Triads calculated the money owed to them by the Manchus in the form of reparations when they helped in their overthrow. Finally, there was a rosary and a white bloodstained shroud, in memory of the massacred monks of Shao Lin monastery in Fukien province where, legend had it, the Triads were founded.

  The Initiate was the one at the table who had groaned. The other eleven were all high officials of the 14K. They all wore traditional robes, and the mood was generally relaxed. Tommy Mo himself was a little tense, however. The past week had brought some setbacks. Three soldiers of the 14K in London had been killed in a restaurant by members of another Triad group. So far, he did not know which one, and that irritated him. The 14K had also lost money in an investment in a real estate company whose chairman had absconded to Canada with several million dollars. The Vancouver branch of the Triad were looking for him, so far without success. Then there was the black rhino horn powder. News had come from Zimbabwe of Rolph Becker’s violent death. Tommy Mo would have to find somebody else in that country or in Zambia to continue the logistics of the rhino poachers.

  Fifteen miles away, in a strongly guarded warehouse in Kowloon, Tommy Mo had five and a half tons of black rhino horn powder wort
h, at current market prices, sixty thousand US dollars per kilo. He had been building up that stock for the past ten years, buying up any powder which came on the market. Just like international dealers who try to corner the markets in silver or gold or any other precious metals, Tommy Mo prided himself on the fact that he had cornered a commodity which had more value per gram than any of the precious metals. He knew that there were less than four hundred black rhinos still alive in the wild, and once they were eliminated the value of his stock would multiply at least tenfold, if not more.

  Yet there was something even more worrying on Tommy Mo’s mind. The 14K had managed to infiltrate three of its members into the police force, and one of them was already a sergeant. Although not in the Anti-Triad Department, he had developed friends within it, and had been asked carefully to find out any information that might come in from the Zimbabwe police. He had been informed that afternoon that the deaths of Becker and his son were highly organised, involving top mercenaries. A certain Mrs Manners had hired them. She was the mother of the dead woman. He also knew that Lucy Kwok Ling Fong had flown to Zimbabwe, so it was almost certain that a connection had been made between the deaths of her family and the death of Carole Manners. If this American woman was looking for ultimate vengeance, then she might finance an attack on the head of the 14K.

  At first, the thought had caused Tommy Mo amusement. The very thought of a bunch of gweilo mercenaries trying to attack him on his own territory was nothing more than a joke. However, a strange lurking feeling would not go away. In his position, he should be well above becoming a target for anybody. He inspired fear and should never know that feeling himself. He brushed aside the thought. Within twenty-four hours he would have a copy of the police dossier in front of him.