The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

“I can’t work out what Judy’s up to,” said Lehman.

  “In what way?” replied Lewis.

  “It’s like she’s trying to rub our noses in all the bad stuff that happened, as if she wants to have us continually apologising for what America did. Yet the people we meet all seem so pleased to see us. It’s like she has a personal axe to grind. She’s obviously been vetted by the government, so they must know what she’s like. Maybe she’s even been told how to act. Maybe this is how the government wants us to be treated, like criminals returning to the scene of the crime.”

  They took their places on the coach and sat in silence as they were driven back to the hotel. One image stuck firmly in Lehman’s mind, and that was of Eric Horvitz looking down at the baby with the stitches in its stomach. There was sorrow in Horvitz’s eyes, and pity. But there was something else, something that worried Lehman. He saw anger, a deep, burning anger, and he had felt that if Tyler hadn’t chosen that moment to suggest that they leave, then Horvitz would have lost control. The one thing that Lehman couldn’t work out was who or what his anger would be directed at.

  Anne Fielding put her head under the shower and rinsed her hair in the hot, stinging stream of water. She lathered up the white bar of soap and bent down to wash her legs, rubbing the lather up and down her thighs and around her backside. She soaped her stomach and then washed her breasts, feeling her nipples harden as her fingers brushed against them. She didn’t wash her face with the soap, believing that it was bad for her complexion. Instead she let the water play across her closed eyes and her cheeks, enjoying the sensation. She put the soap back on its shelf and rinsed the suds off, turning slowly under the spray, raising her arms and lifting her legs one at a time.

  The muscles in her legs and her right arm were already starting to ache. It was a healthy ache, a reflection of the effort she’d put into the tennis game. It was one of the last chances she’d get to partner Sally Remnick before she left Hong Kong for good and she wanted to make sure she played well. She’d run for every ball, hit her services a lot harder than normal, and damn near run herself into the ground, but they’d won, two sets to one. She turned the shower off and wrapped a fluffy pale green towel around her waist before leaving the cubicle.

  Sally was still showering, as were the two women they’d beaten, Phyllis Kelley and Claire Pettier. She left the shower area and padded into the changing room, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints on the tiled floor. To the left were metal lockers and at the far end of the room was a waist-high shelf on which were hair-dryers, pretty boxes of tissues, and a selection of brushes and combs. Running along the wall above the shelf was a mirror and she walked over to it. She stood in front of it, her hands on her hips, and studied herself. She raised her chin slightly and turned her head from side to side. She had a good neck, almost no wrinkles, and the skin on her face was smooth and tight. As she turned her breasts swayed and she was pleased with the way they moved and that there were no signs of sagging or ugly veins. Her skin was in good shape too, there were no folds above the towel, no middle-aged spread like she saw on so many women of her age, no indication that she’d ever given birth. She’d worked so hard to keep her figure after Debbie’s birth, swimming every day, exercising in the gym, doing all she could to get back to her normal weight and avoid stretch marks. It had paid off.

  “God, Anne, you’re so narcissistic,” said Sally Remnick as she came out of the shower room, a towel around her shoulders, another wrapped like a turban around her long, black hair.

  “It’s not narcissism, it’s practical,” said Anne. “It’s like examining a car to see if it’s got any problems, mechanically or bodywise.”

  “You’ve got a fabulous body,” said Sally.

  “If you add ‘for your age’ I’ll kill you,” warned Anne with a smile. Their opponents came out of the shower room and Anne smiled at them. “Drinks upstairs?” she asked.

  “Sounds good,” said Phyllis. Phyllis Kelley was about the same age as Anne, a tall, buxom redhead who was married to a British stockbroker. Their three children were at boarding school back in England and she had too much spare time on her hands. She played tennis at the Ladies’ Recreation Club every day and had a mean first serve. She was also a dedicated shopper and had accounts at most of the city’s top boutiques. Even her daily tennis and shopping sprees failed to dent the huge amount of free time she had, and it was no secret that she had had a succession of lovers. Phyllis and her second husband, Jonathan, had been married for almost fifteen years and little love remained. She told Anne time and time again that they only stayed together for the children’s sake, but that seemed curious in light of the fact that they were in England for nine months of the year. Anne thought that the Kelleys actually enjoyed their lifestyle: a safe, if dull, marriage, three beautiful children, a very healthy bank balance, and sexual adventures on the side. There were times when she half wished that she and William had come to a similar understanding.

  “I can’t stay long,” said Claire. Claire Pettier was the youngest of the four, a brunette with a homely, round face and a figure which could be best described as chunky. Claire was an American and the only one of the group to have a job. She worked for a public relations company which had some of the biggest firms in Hong Kong on its client list. She was a workaholic, and tennis was about the only social life she had. She was in a perpetual rush, and Anne often envied Claire her sense of purpose and the fact that she hadn’t succumbed to what she had labelled the Expat Wives Syndrome. In Hong Kong you either worked, or you were married to someone who worked. And if you fell into the latter category, time was something to be filled, rather than used. Expat wives lived lives of pampered luxury with servants and chauffeurs at their beck and call, but they were often empty lives – trophies on the arms of their rich and successful husbands, or mothers to children they hardly saw. It was hardly surprising that so many followed the example of Phyllis Kelley and looked for fulfilment in other men’s beds. Anne was one of the few women she knew for sure who hadn’t had an affair. Not because she hadn’t wanted to, or because she hadn’t had the opportunity. Anne hadn’t strayed because she knew that Hong Kong was too small and incestuous a place to have an affair in secret, and that if she were ever discovered it would hurt her husband. Like Caesar’s wife, the wife of the chairman of the Kowloon and Canton Bank had to be above reproach.

  Anne finished drying her hair and threw the second towel in the basket. She walked naked to her locker, conscious that Phyllis was watching her enviously.

  She dressed slowly and carefully and then admired the Armani pale aqua silk suit, the jacket long and the skirt short, in the mirror.

  “That’s gorgeous,” said Sally. “Is it new?”

  “So new that William hasn’t even got the bill yet,” laughed Anne.

  “I’m sure he won’t mind when he sees how good it looks on you.”

  “Ha!” exploded Anne. “He hardly notices when I’m around, never mind what I’m wearing.” She added despondently, “He’s more interested in how his racehorses look.”

  “Oh, Anne, I’m sure that’s not true.”

  Anne shook her head and smoothed down the jacket. “No, he’s only able to concentrate on one thing at a time, and at the moment it’s the bank that’s occupying his mind. And to be honest, I don’t think I even come a poor second. Come on, I need a drink.”

  The two women headed for the door. “We’ll get a table,” Anne said to Phyllis and Claire who were still towelling themselves dry. Anne and Sally found an empty table upstairs from where they had a good view of the tennis courts below. A waiter came over and asked if they planned to eat.

  “Just drinks,” said Anne. “I’ll have a gin and tonic, what do you want Sally, a Bloody Mary?”

  “Just a tomato juice,” said Sally, looking at the slim gold watch on her wrist.

  “Jesus,” said Anne, under her breath. “Why is it that every time I order a drink someone always looks at their watch?”

&nbs
p; Sally reached over and put her hand on Anne’s elbow. “Hey, don’t be so sensitive. I only wanted to see what time it was because I promised to meet Michael at three.” The waiter remained at their table, his pen in his hand. Sally looked up at him. “A gin and tonic and a Bloody Mary,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” said Anne as the waiter went away.

  “What’s wrong? I’ve never seen you like this before. Is it William?”

  “That’s partly it, but things haven’t been right between us for so long that I’ve almost become used to it.” She looked across the table at Sally and Sally could see there were tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m going to miss you, Sally. You’re my best friend and I’m going to miss you like hell.”

  “It’s only Singapore,” soothed Sally. She took Anne’s right hand in hers. “It’s a two-hour flight,” she said.

  “Three,” said Anne.

  “Whatever. It’s not as if I’m going back to the UK.”

  “I know that,” said Anne. She slipped her hand out of Sally’s and took a small, white handkerchief from her purse. “It’s just that you’re my last real friend here,” she said, dabbing the handkerchief at her eyes. “Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to tell my secrets to? I’m starting to feel so alone.”

  Sally nodded. “Hong Kong isn’t the same as it used to be,” she admitted. “To be honest, I’m actually looking forward to the move because we’ve now got more friends living there than we have here. It seems as if everybody’s relocating.”

  “Except me,” said Anne bitterly. She saw Phyllis and Claire walking towards their table and waved over to them. “Did you order your drinks?” she asked.

  “We caught the waiter as we came in,” said Claire, as they sat down.

  “You two played really well today,” said Phyllis.

  “Yes, I’m going to miss Sally when she goes,” said Anne.

  “When are you going?” asked Claire.

  “Three weeks,” said Sally.

  “So soon?” said Phyllis.

  Sally nodded. “The office and computer systems were set up two months ago and the support staff have already been hired. We’re going over next weekend to look at houses. It’s going to be so nice to live in a real house with a garden and a private pool instead of a high-rise apartment. No more mah jong parties above my head, no more screaming conversations in the lift, no more rude shop assistants or surly waiters. Singapore, here I come.”

  “Isn’t there anything you’ll miss?” asked Claire.

  Sally looked at Anne and smiled. “My friends,” she said quietly. “Only my friends.”

  “And the shopping,” said Phyllis, wagging a warning finger at Sally.

  “Well, yes, I suppose the shopping,” Sally admitted. “But Singapore is almost as good as Hong Kong.”

  Their drinks arrived. Anne was pleased to see that Phyllis had ordered her usual vodka martini. Claire, a confirmed teetotaller, had an orange juice.

  Phyllis raised her glass. “To 1997,” she said. The three other women clinked their glasses to hers and repeated the toast.

  “The end of an era,” said Sally.

  “The end of everything,” said Anne.

  They drank and laughed. Phyllis leant back in her chair and shaded her eyes with her left hand as she watched the tennis players below.

  “Isn’t that Richard Marsh?” she asked.

  “Where?” said Sally.

  Phyllis pointed. “There, on the left.”

  Sally squinted. “Yes, it’s him.”

  “Who’s he?” asked Anne.

  “Oh, you must know him,” said Phyllis. “He works for the Securities and Futures Commission, he’s one of their high-flyers.”

  “The SFC?” Sally nodded. “That’d be right. It’s one of the few organisations where they still promote gweilos instead of locals.”

  “Only because they don’t trust the Chinese to run their own stock exchange,” laughed Claire.

  “Ah, I remember him now,” said Anne. “He came to one of the bank’s cocktail parties a few weeks ago. Pretty wife, what’s her name?”

  “Pauline. He’s having an affair, you know.”

  “No!” said Sally.

  “Who with?” asked Claire, sipping her orange juice.

  Phyllis looked at all their faces one by one, making sure she had their full attention. “Mary Russell,” she said.

  “Not Dan Russell’s wife?” said Sally, her mouth open.

  Phyllis nodded.

  “How on earth do you know that?” asked Anne.

  Phyllis leant forward and whispered conspiratorially over the table. “Well, I saw the two of them in a booth at Charlotte’s last month.”

  “In the Ambassador Hotel?” said Claire.

  Phyllis nodded again. “And his car was seen parked outside the Russells’ house about a month before that when Dan was in Taiwan.”

  “No!” said Sally.

  “Yes,” said Phyllis. “And last week they were seen together in the Hyatt Hotel in Macau.”

  “Oh, Phyllis, if anyone was having an affair they’d hardly be likely to go to Macau,” protested Anne.

  “That’s what you think,” said Phyllis, raising an eyebrow.

  “You have not,” said Anne.

  Phyllis raised both eyebrows. “I’m not saying I have, and I’m not saying I haven’t,” she said in a little girl’s voice.

  “People do get careless,” said Claire. “I mean, they know Hong Kong is too small a place to have an affair, but they still do it. It’s a sort of death wish, I suppose. They know you can’t go into a restaurant without meeting at least three people who recognise you, but they try to have candlelit dinners. They know that everyone goes to Macau at least six times a year but they meet in the hotels there. They’re crazy.”

  “It’s all right for you,” said Phyllis. “You’re single.”

  “You wish,” said Claire. “Have you any idea how hard it is to find a single man in Hong Kong? They’re all chasing the pretty little Asian girls, their doe-eyed, submissive dream girls. At least you’ve got a husband.”

  “Several, by all accounts,” said Sally, grinning. Phyllis laughed with her. She made no secret of her affairs, and had often reduced the three of them to tears with the details.

  “What about the Chinese men?” asked Sally. “Surely there’s no shortage of them?”

  “Oh please, have you ever been out with a Chinese male?” asked Claire. “They’re so full of themselves, they’ve no idea how to treat a woman. Any woman.”

  “And they’re lousy in bed,” said Phyllis.

  “Oh God!” shrieked Sally. “Phyllis, you have not!”

  “Come on Phyllis, spill the beans,” said Anne.

  “Girls, girls, you know that I never kiss and tell.”

  “Oh right,” said Sally.

  “Well if you insist,” said Phyllis. She took a long pull at her martini. “The first was a banker from New York.”

  “American Chinese don’t count,” said Claire.

  “His parents still live in Shanghai,” said Phyllis.

  “Well …” said Claire, unconvinced.

  “He was very articulate, a good talker, dressed well, but in bed … lousy. Two minutes from start to finish, didn’t know the meaning of foreplay.”

  “Details,” said Sally. “I want length, width, duration.”

  “You’ve had duration, two minutes. Width, well I suppose it was about two inches.”

  “Two inches in diameter?” said Sally. “That sounds about average.”

  “Who said anything about diameter?” said Phyllis. “We’re talking circumference.”

  “Oh my God,” said Anne.

  “And length?” said Claire.

  “About the same,” said Phyllis. “Two inches.”

  “No!” said Sally. “You’re not serious.”

  “Maybe it was three inches then,” admitted Phyllis. “I hardly felt it. It was like being made love to by a mosquito.”


  Sally, Anne and Claire laughed loudly, attracting the attention of several neighbouring tables.

  “Shhhhhh!” said Anne, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, though this time it was to wipe away tears of laughter, not sadness.

  “And the second one?” prompted Claire.

  Phyllis shook her head sadly. “A Hong Kong Chinese. He works for the Stock Exchange. Married with three children, but God only knows how he managed it. He thought he was one of the world’s great lovers, you know? Used his finger for thirty seconds, climbed on top, pumped away for three minutes, collapsed on to his back, lit a cigarette and then asked how it was for me. I ask you. How was it for me? Not great, I told him. He was mortally offended. Asked me if I was frigid. He told me that his wife had an orgasm every time he made love to her.”

  “Maybe that’s why our men like Asian girls so much,” said Claire. “Maybe they come on command.”

  “Wouldn’t that be great?” said Sally. “It takes me at least half an hour, and even then it’s not guaranteed.”

  “I don’t think I can remember what an orgasm is like,” said Anne. She drained her glass and waved over the waiter to order another round of drinks.

  “This was quite a few years ago,” continued Phyllis. “But I’ve never been with another Chinese. Two were enough for me. But from what I’ve heard, they’re all the same.”

  “Phyllis, you’re impossible,” chided Anne.

  “What’s sauce for the goose …” said Phyllis. “I know what Michael gets up to on his so-called golfing weekends in Thailand and the Philippines. He barely tries to hide it any more. At least he takes precautions.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The little darling takes condoms in his washing kit, and I’m on the Pill so I know they’re not for me.”

  Anne shook her head sadly. Despite the jokes, she was sure that Phyllis would have preferred a loving marriage to the sexual one-upmanship games she was forced to play with her errant husband.

  Phyllis looked over Anne’s shoulder and licked her lips. “Well now, maybe I was being a little hasty,” she said.

  “Hasty?” said Anne.

  “About Chinese men,” said Phyllis. “Take a look at him. Now he is a hunk.”