Lehman looked around at their fellow racegoers. Some were obviously tourists, skin reddened by unaccustomed exposure to the sun and wearing clothes they wouldn’t be seen dead in back home, weighed down with new camera equipment fresh from the rip-off shops in Tsim Sha Tsui. Others were cocky young expats in sharp made-to-measure suits drinking gin and tonics and laughing with their heads thrown back, rich Chinese with Rolex watches studying Chinese newspapers and marking favourites with gold pens and poor Chinese slurping noodles from plastic bowls as they waited for racing to start.
“Strange mix, isn’t it?” said Lewis as he came back with a tray of beers.
“Yeah,” agreed Tyler. “Hardly seems like the sport of kings, does it?”
“I thought racing was just for the top people, for the British,” said Carmody, who was sitting on Tyler’s left. “It seems like every man and his dog is here. The place is almost full. There must be 100,000 people here.”
“No,” said Tyler. “Normal raceday attendance is about 36,000. More for the big meetings. And there’ll be another 10,000 or so at the other racetrack in Shatin, watching it on a live screen there.”
“They must be racing mad,” said Lewis as he handed out the beers.
“It’s not the horses they like, it’s the gambling,” said Tyler. “Gambling is illegal in Hong Kong, with two exceptions – horse racing and the Mark Six Lottery. And the Jockey Club controls them both. The Chinese love to gamble, that’s why they’re here.”
“Speaking of which, I’m going to place a bet,” said Carmody, sliding by. “Fifty dollars to win on Galloping Dragon.”
“A hot tip?” asked Tyler.
“A hunch,” said Carmody.
Over at the end of the row Lehman was in deep conversation with a middle-aged Chinese man with horn-rimmed spectacles. The man had several newspapers and a notebook full of small handwritten figures and he was wagging his finger at Lehman as he talked. As Tyler watched, the man helped Lehman fill out a card with a series of ticks, nodding and grinning, obviously pleased at being asked advice by an American tourist. Lehman thanked him, and then followed Carmody up the steps.
Lehman stood behind Carmody in a short queue in front of one of the cashiers. He looked at his watch. There were ten minutes to go before the first race was due to start and Lehman could feel the tension growing in the betting hall.
Carmody reached the front of the queue and handed his ticket and money over with his claw, enjoying as he always did the look of surprise on the young girl’s face. She couldn’t take her eyes off the stainless-steel claw and her fingers trembled as she fed his card into the computer terminal. Carmody smiled at her discomfort and slowly raised the claw to scratch his cheek. Her eyes widened and she gave him back the card, pulling away her hand as if frightened of getting burnt. Carmody held her gaze for several seconds before moving away.
Lehman smiled at the girl, trying to ease her fear, but she was still shocked at what she’d seen and kept her eyes down at the counter as she processed his betting ticket. Lehman’s bet was a complicated one done on the advice of the man he’d been sitting next to. It was an All Up Win bet, where any winnings on the first race were automatically put on the next, and so on. Under the man’s guidance, Lehman had chosen a horse from each of the six races and was placing a 500 dollar bet. If all his six selections came home first he wouldn’t need to go any further with Tyler and his plan. It was the sort of gamble that Lehman relished. All or nothing. As far as he was concerned, there was no point in wagering fifty dollars to win back a hundred. There was no satisfaction in a small win.
He took his stamped card from the girl and turned to see Tyler behind him.
Tyler looked down at the card with its distinctive brown strip. “I didn’t even tell you about that one,” he said.
“I guess you can’t tell us everything,” said Lehman.
“Not all at once, that’s true,” agreed Tyler, looking steadily at Lehman. “Though the key to making big money isn’t gambling. It’s planning. Careful planning followed by faultless execution.”
“That’s what you’re doing?”
Tyler nodded. “The planning has already been done, Dan.”
“And the execution?”
“Later. I’ll tell you all later.”
“It’s here, isn’t it?”
“Later, Dan.” Tyler stepped to one side to allow Lehman by and then placed his own wager, a hundred dollar each-way bet on the favourite. When he retook his seat the horses were on the track warming up, the jockeys wearing brightly coloured shirts, the horses well groomed and eager for the off. The crowd was buzzing, there was an announcement over the loudspeakers in Chinese which sparked a chorus of good-natured cheers and whistles, and the crowd began rushing down the stairs to take their seats.
The large screen in the middle of the track was showing close-ups of the various runners and the two tote boards carried all the betting details, including the winning odds of the different horses and the odds of the various combination bets.
With a minimum of fuss the horses were encouraged into the starting gates and then they were off, hooves kicking up small plumes of sand from the artificial track. The start was at the far side of the track and as the horses came pounding around the second curve and in front of the grandstand everyone got to their feet and began screaming and shouting, then in a thunder of hooves they were gone, curving around to the right. All eyes then were on the screen where the order of the first four runners was indicated by large numbers. The favourite was running second. Of Galloping Dragon there was no sign. Carmody was shrieking, his eyes fixed on the screen, his one hand clenched tight, the hook making small pumping movements. The drumming of the hooves got louder as the horses rounded the bend for the last time and galloped towards the finishing line, nostrils flaring and tendons straining. The spectators were at fever pitch as the favourite slipped into third place and a chestnut challenged the leader, its jockey bobbing backwards and forwards like a man possessed, but his challenge failed by just half a length as they flashed across the finishing line.
“Shit!” said Carmody, slumping down into his seat. “Shit, shit, shit!” Lewis ripped up his ticket and dropped it on the floor. Lehman was smiling so Tyler guessed he’d backed the winner, and his suspicion was confirmed when the Chinese bettor who’d given him the tip turned to him and shook his hand.
“You not gambling, Eric?” Tyler asked Horvitz.
Horvitz shook his head. “Never been one to get a kick from betting, Colonel,” he said. “Watching the racing is fine, but that’s as far as it goes with me.”
“Having money on the outcome gives it an edge,” said Tyler. “Means you’ve got an interest in the outcome.”
“I’ve lived on the edge, Colonel. I’ve walked the line and I came back.” He spoke in a dull monotone voice like a spirit talking from beyond the grave, a presence that had no interest in the petty occupations of the living. The two men looked at each other for a second, and then Horvitz smiled thinly. “Besides,” he said, “I want to keep hold of my cash.”
Everyone but Horvitz placed bets on the second race, Tyler backing the favourite with an each-way bet again, Carmody going for another hunch, Lewis and Doherty putting 500 dollars on the favourite to win and Lehman going for a combination bet on the advice of his newfound friend. The favourite romped home at two to one which saw Doherty and Lewis jumping up and down and slapping a disgruntled Carmody on the back. Tyler was showing a decent profit and he went into the betting hall to collect his winnings from the first two races. Lehman followed him and stood at an adjacent window.
“How are you doing?” asked Tyler.
“Okay,” said Lehman, accepting a handful of yellow notes from the cashier.
“Is your All Up bet still on?”
Lehman grinned and nodded. “Fingers crossed,” he said. He winked at Tyler and then slowly walked along the betting hall towards the escalators. He went up another floor and found an identical betting hal
l filled with people watching the results on a bank of television sets and queuing to place their bets. Handfuls of red and yellow notes were being shoved across the counters and betting tickets eagerly grabbed. A lot of money was changing hands. A hell of a lot of money. There were dozens of cashiers watched over by supervisors behind them. The money was placed in drawers in front of the cashiers but he didn’t see any of it being collected and taken to a central point. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of security, either. The same cashiers who accepted bets also paid out winnings after checking the tickets, and from a cursory glance Lehman had no idea how much cash there was behind the windows at any one point. He went back to his seat and chatted for a while with his neighbour, picking up several more tips in the process. The man was an amateur tipster and was pleased to have found an attentive listener in Lehman. Lehman reckoned that the man didn’t often get a chance to show off his knowledge, and he was happy to lend him an ear because over the next few races he won several thousand dollars. The All Up bet fell at the fourth race, by which time there had been 8,000 dollars riding on his horse. His companion had gone for the more conservative All Up Place bet and by the time the last winner crossed the finishing line he’d turned a 400 dollar stake into a quarter of a million dollars. Hong Kong dollars, that is, equivalent to about 32,000 US dollars. The man was pleased at winning, but not as overjoyed as Lehman would have expected considering the size of the windfall. Lehman got the impression that the man was used to winning big sums. He himself ended the night a couple of thousand dollars richer, though at one point he’d been up about 10,000 HK dollars. Tyler walked away with a similar amount, though he had steadily won small sums throughout the meeting. Doherty admitted to being down a few hundred dollars while Lewis was cagey about his performance. Lehman reckoned he’d lost overall, while there was no doubt about what had happened to Carmody. He was sitting slumped in his bucket seat surrounded by a pile of torn-up tickets.
The men walked back through the crowds streaming out of the racecourse. There was a row of Mercedes and Rolls-Royces awaiting their wealthy owners and taxis with their roof lights on were having no trouble touting for business. When they reached the hotel they were sweating from the exertion of walking uphill in the hot, moist air and Tyler invited them all up to his suite for a drink.
There was a small, circular table on the patio and the vets gathered chairs around it and sat down, laughing and joking about the night’s racing while Tyler fetched them cans of Carlsberg, Tsing Tao and San Miguel from the mini-bar fridge.
When they all had a beer in front of them the conversation gradually died and they waited expectantly for Tyler to speak. Far below the floodlights still illuminated the racetrack and the air was buzzing with the sound of thousands of people making their way home. Tyler stood behind his chair, leaving his beer on the table. He stood for a while and looked down on the throngs in the streets below and then switched his glance to the five men, looking at them one by one and nodding at each as if acknowledging them for the first time.
“I suppose you’ve all realised by now that the visit to the track wasn’t just a chance to win money.” He smiled at Carmody. “Or to lose it.” The vets laughed, and Lewis slapped Carmody’s leg. “When I approached you all in Bangkok, I made it clear that what I have planned is a robbery. A big one. One of the biggest. And tonight you’ve all seen that there’s a stack of money at the Happy Valley track, there for the taking. You don’t have to have an IQ above room temperature to put two and two together. What you gentlemen have to decide is whether or not you want to take part. There’s obviously a limit to how much I can tell you before you decide whether or not to commit yourself, but I can give you a few basic facts.”
He took a mouthful of beer from his can of San Miguel. “More money is wagered at the racetrack in Hong Kong than anywhere else in the world. The average amount wagered at a race meeting is 725 million HK dollars – that’s about ninety million US dollars.”
“Excuse me, Colonel, that’s ninety million US dollars during the season, right?” interrupted Carmody.
Tyler shook his head. “That’s a negative, Larry. Betting turnover for the season is more than seventy billion HK dollars. In US dollar terms that’s almost ten billion. The record take for one raceday is more than 900 million HK dollars; 115 million US dollars. Think about that, gentlemen. Savour those numbers.”
Lewis whistled softly and Lehman nodded slowly.
“Now, not all that money sits at the racetrack. The average attendance at the track is about 36,000, as I told you before. Another 10,000 or so place bets at the Shatin track while racing goes on down there. But one million bets are placed at the Jockey Club’s off-course betting centres which are spread all over the colony. And another half a million bets are phoned in. But even so, more cash is bet at that track than anywhere else in the world. Gentlemen, I have a foolproof plan to acquire a sizable portion of that money. I already have a number of associates but I need your particular expertise to ensure that the operation proceeds successfully. I can’t tell you any more until you decide whether or not you wish to enlist.”
He put down his beer and surveyed the five men. “Gentlemen, it’s time to shit, or get off the pot.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited.
Carmody was the first to speak. “I’m in, Colonel,” he said. Carmody looked around the faces of the four other men. Lewis was nodding. So was Doherty.
Lewis and Carmody looked at Lehman. He shrugged. “I wouldn’t have come to Hong Kong if I hadn’t already decided that I was in,” he said.
“Way to go!” said Carmody, and Lewis reached over to shake his hand.
Tyler looked at Horvitz, who seemed to be the only one of the five who was actually thinking about the proposition. He seemed to be mentally wrestling with himself, his forehead deeply lined. In the distance dogs were barking from the hillside that loomed above the hotel. Horvitz’s eyes seemed to blank out as he thought, then he lifted his chin and grinned. “Yeah, I’m in,” he said. “You can count me in.”
Tyler smiled. He walked through into his bedroom, lifted his suitcase and hefted it on to the bed. He flicked its catches and took something from inside. The vets watched him curiously. Whatever he had taken from the case he held behind his back as he went back to the patio.
“I knew before we arrived in Hong Kong that we’d make a good team, and I expected you’d all say that you wanted to take it further. But you have to understand that we have now reached the point of no return. You can’t say that you want to go ahead with this and then decide later that you want to drop out. If you have any doubts, any doubts at all, then now is the time to express them and to walk away. At the moment all you know is where. You don’t know when, or what the plan is, or who else will be taking part. We can part now as friends and I won’t feel threatened. You don’t know enough to be a danger to me or to my plans. You can take the money I’ve given you and go back to your lives in the States.”
From behind his back he took a large handgun. He held the butt with his right hand and caressed the barrel with his left. The gun dwarfed his hand. It was a powerful gun, a Smith & Wesson Model 19 Combat Magnum weighing thirty-five ounces. He’d picked it up earlier in the day, before he’d checked in at the hotel.
“If you go now, there’ll be no hard feelings. But if you try to leave once the operation is under way, there will be only one way out.” He nodded his head at the gun. “Gentlemen, if you have any doubts, any doubts at all, then go now.”
The five vets sat in silence, all of them looking at the menacing weapon. Tyler looked at them, searching for any sign of reluctance. He saw none, and smiled.
“Very well. From this moment on consider yourself on the payroll. I’ll now take any questions you may have.”
Horvitz took his eyes off the Smith & Wesson and ran his hand along his chin. “Yeah, I’ve got a question,” he said. “When do we do it?”
Tyler smiled. “Happy Valley’s busiest day,” he
said. “The last race of the season.”
Lehman nodded. “I’ve a question. How do we get away? How do we get away with the money once we’ve got it?”
Tyler walked across the patio and rested his hands on the wall. He felt rather than saw the rest of the vets get up and follow him, standing behind him in a semicircle and looking down at the track. Tyler pointed at the grandstand, and then raised his hand up skywards, between the towering apartment blocks. “We get away the same way we used to in Nam,” he said quietly. “We fly.”
Anthony Chung had long held the view that the best Cantonese food in Hong Kong was to be had at the Dynasty Restaurant in the New World Hotel in Kowloon. Pretty much everything about the restaurant was perfect: the service was impeccable, the decor was smart with none of the tacky glitz that spoiled so many of the local restaurants, and the food was always superb. Chung had never tasted river fish as fresh and succulent as was served at the Dynasty, and even their steamed rice was a step above anything else that could be obtained in the city.
The captain greeted him warmly by name and escorted him to a corner table set for three. He waited until Chung was seated before snapping out a white napkin and placing it over his lap and handing him two menus, a regular à la carte menu and an additional one with the chef’s specials.
“Your usual?” the captain asked. He was young, in his late twenties with slicked-back hair and a ready smile, and he never forgot the name or the preferences of his regular clients.
“Please,” said Chung. As the captain left, Chung glanced around the restaurant. As usual it was virtually full; he wasn’t alone in appreciating the high standards of the Dynasty’s chefs. He recognised faces at several of the tables: a sprinkling of high-powered businessmen with their wives or mistresses, the editor of one of the city’s leading Chinese newspapers, and two successful horse trainers. There were tourists, too, probably eating there because they were staying at the hotel and not aware they were dining in one of Hong Kong’s premier restaurants. He’d seen tourists asking why chow mein wasn’t on the menu, or ordering four portions of the same dish and each eating their own with a fork while the waitresses giggled in the kitchen.
The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 30