She sighed appreciatively as she walked along the hall-way and into the lounge. The far wall was virtually all glass and it looked down on a courtyard full of lush green trees and bushes around a small pool which was lit by discreet spotlights. The walls and ceiling of the room were painted white, the floors were wooden and stained a pale beige, and there were vertical white blinds which had been pulled back to either side of the window. It was a stunning room during the day, when the sun streamed in through the double-glazed glass wall, and even at night Chung knew Yo-yo would be impressed and that it wouldn’t be long before she asked him how much it had cost. Like the Ferrari, the apartment was leased. So was the furniture, which, like the car, was Italian and very expensive. There were three sofas covered in a cream fabric, a coffee table made of an oblong sheet of toughened glass balanced on three black marble spheres, and a long, low black table on which were lined up the components of a Bang and Olufsen stereo system, a Hitachi video recorder and a large, flat screen television. At either end of the table stood tall, thin speakers which were as tall as Yo-yo. Two paintings, modernist splashes of red, black and green on pure white canvas were highlighted by track-mounted spotlights on the ceiling and to the right of the door was a black, oblong dining table, around which were eight high-backed chairs.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “It’s fabulous.” Chung wondered if she realised that they were exactly the same words she’d used about the car.
“I like it,” he said. He’d left a couple of glossy car magazines on the coffee table next to a copy of the Hong Kong Standard, and there was a squash racquet leaning next to one of the speakers, small touches which made the rented apartment look more like a home.
Yo-yo put her handbag next to the CD player. “Mind if I put something on?” she asked.
“Help yourself,” said Chung. “The CDs are in a drawer under the amplifier.”
She slid open the drawer and ran a finger over the CD collection. “You like Bryan Ferry?” she asked.
“Sure,” said Chung. The CDs came with the apartment and he hadn’t even looked at them. Yo-yo took the shiny disc out of its holder and pressed the button which opened the player.
“Can I get you a drink?” Chung asked. She shook her head and pressed the “play” button. Ferry’s deep, rich voice oozed out of the speakers.
She slipped her shoes off and padded over the wooden floor, walking on the balls of her feet so that her legs still seemed long. She took him by the hand and he felt her sharp nails bite into the skin. “Which way’s the bedroom?” she whispered. Chung nodded towards a door and she pulled him in that direction.
Unlike the lounge, the bedroom was carpeted, a thick, pale purple pile which matched the drapes that had been drawn across the window. Yo-yo flicked the light switch and the room was bathed in soft light. The whole of the left wall had been given over to walk-in closets with white louvred doors and along the right was a long, low dressing-table of white wood and two matching stools.
The bed was against the wall facing the door, a queen-size on a brass frame with a thick quilt in a dark purple cover and two big pillows in purple cases. The quilt was unruffled and the pillows were perfectly smooth as if the bed had never been slept in. Yo-yo took off her gold earrings and went over to the dressing-table, running her stockinged feet through the carpet. She put the jewellery on the table next to a circular mirror and then took off her necklace. She was humming softly to the music playing on the stereo outside.
There was a lamp by the side of the bed, a thin, black stem, about six feet tall, which opened out to a bowl shape. At its base was a plastic brightness control which Chung had already set to the level he wanted. He switched on the lamp and turned off the main overhead light. The lamp illuminated most of the bed but left the corners of the room in near darkness.
“You want the light on?” said Yo-yo, turning to face him across the room.
“I want to be able to see you,” said Chung, slipping off his jacket. He opened one of the closet doors and put his jacket on a wooden hanger.
Yo-yo reached up to unclip her hair and shook it so that it flowed around her shoulders. She walked slowly towards Chung, taking her time because she knew that men liked to watch her move. When she stood in front of him she removed his tie, watching his face as she slipped it out of his collar and dropped it on the floor. She ran the fingernail of her right index finger slowly down his chest and then used both hands to undo his belt, her eyes never leaving his face. Chung moved his chin forward to kiss her but she had already begun to move down on to her knees as her small hands pulled down his zipper. Her hair glistened as she looked up at him; he felt her cool hands on his skin, stroking and holding, and he gasped. She smiled at his obvious enjoyment, then opened her mouth, lightly licking her full lips with her small, pointed tongue. Chung groaned and placed both hands gently on the sides of her head. He could feel her ears through her hair. Her hands moved again, pushing his trousers down, and he felt cold air as she slipped open his silk boxer shorts and took him in her warm, wet mouth. She made soft groaning sounds and closed her eyes. Chung moved his hips backwards and forwards, turning his head away from the closet doors so that the video camera hidden there wouldn’t film his features, its gentle whirring sound masked by Bryan Ferry’s vocals.
“Got you, you bastard,” said Neil Coleman under his breath. He’d just got off the phone from the luxury car rental company which had leased the Ferrari to Anthony Chung. He’d run the registration number through the Department of Vehicle Registration computer and discovered that the car was owned by the leasing company. All it had taken was one phone call and he had Chung’s name, date of birth, address and bank details, along with his French passport number. He apparently had no Hong Kong identity card, which was interesting in itself. Where the leasing company had asked Chung to fill in details of his employment he had written “self-employed”. So much for his claim that he was a colleague of William Fielding.
The address was an apartment in Kowloon Tong, a high-class residential area which was a far cry from his own tower block in Wan Chai. He put through a call to the Hong Kong government’s Rating and Valuation Department which informed him that the flat was owned by a mainland Chinese company and was leased out on a monthly basis.
It took several calls to the Inland Revenue before he was satisfied that Chung paid no tax, either personal or through a company, and one call to the Births and Deaths General Register Office to confirm that he had not been born in Hong Kong. He telephoned through to Criminal Records and asked them to run a check on Anthony Chung. He waited on the line while they typed in his details and after a moment or two he was told that there was nothing on him, not even a parking ticket. His next step was to phone through to the Immigration Department. According to them, Chung had arrived in Hong Kong a month earlier on an Air France 747 from Paris and had been given a six-months visa. He had not applied for employment in the colony and had given the Sheraton Hotel in Tsim Sha Tsui as his address.
Coleman sat back in his chair and studied what he’d written down. Anthony Chung was the same age as Coleman, thirty-four, a French citizen, had no visible means of support but was driving one of the most expensive cars in the world and living in an apartment which probably cost at least three times Coleman’s salary. What Coleman wanted to know was whether Chung had been born in France or if he was from mainland China. And he wanted to know what he was up to; once he found out, he’d stop him. And that was a promise.
Anthony Chung swung his bare feet up on to the coffee table and rested the clipboard on his thighs. He was wearing a black polo shirt and black jeans and he hadn’t shaved that morning. He pointed his remote control unit at the video recorder and froze the picture on the large flat-screen television. He tapped his gold fountain pen against his chin as he studied the figures on the screen. Yo-yo could clearly be seen, sitting astride him, her back arched and her eyes closed. Chung’s arms were up and he was caressing her breasts, but his face was in sh
adow at the end of the bed. There was no way of telling the identity of the man she was so energetically making love to. Chung made a note on the clipboard and pressed the remote control. Yo-yo jerked into motion again, grinding herself against the figure on the bed, gasping and panting and throwing her head backwards and forwards. Chung picked up a mug of black coffee and took a mouthful as he watched.
The Chung on the screen moved to sit upright, pushing Yo-yo on to her back and positioning her legs up on his shoulders, either side of his neck. He froze the picture and noted on the clipboard that at no time had his face been revealed to the camera lens. All that could be seen as he moved was the top of his head, and once her legs were around his neck his face was totally hidden. He started the video again and watched as his video image pumped in and out as Yo-yo grunted in time with her movements, her toes clenching and unclenching. Chung pressed the fast forward button and smiled as the lovemaking lurched into overdrive. He slowed it down again when the figures changed position. The screen Chung reached up to move her legs back around his waist where she interlocked her ankles and squeezed him. Yo-yo scratched her nails down his spine and kissed his neck like a vampire taking blood. The Chung on the video kissed her on the mouth but as he did the left side of his face was revealed to the camera. Chung stopped the video and noted the fact on the clipboard. When he kissed her left ear his face was hidden but as soon as he kissed her mouth he could be identified. He’d have to be careful in that position, but it was a good one because all of her face was in the light. If he put her across the bed he’d be able to kiss her on the mouth without his face being seen.
He started it again. The screen Chung lifted himself off Yo-yo and gently eased her on to her front, lifting her hips and taking her from behind. It was the position which gave him the most pleasure but it achieved the exact opposite of the effect he wanted: his face was in full view of the camera while Yo-yo had her head down. Earlier on, after he’d unzipped her dress and unfastened her stockings, he’d made her kneel on the end of the bed and he’d made love to her while he stood behind her and that had worked really well because his whole body had been in the dark. Yo-yo pushed herself up and held on to the brass frame of the bed, forcing herself back on to Chung. The whole frame of the bed rocked, so aggressive were his movements. It was a good picture, he could clearly see the sweat dripping down her neck and hear her panting, but he could equally plainly see his own face. He wrote on his clipboard and took another drink from his coffee mug.
The figures on the screen changed positions again, Chung sitting on the bed with his back to the closets, her sitting on him, her legs around his waist, lifting herself up, and then dropping down, making them both gasp. All that could be seen of him was his back. Perfect.
She threw back her head and moved faster and faster, her hair swinging from side to side and then she cried out and shuddered. She stopped moving and held her arms tight around his neck but the screen Chung hadn’t finished with her. He took her arms and pushed her down on to the bed again where she lay with her eyes closed, her body glistening under the light from the lamp, her nipples hard and erect, her hair in disarray. Chung lay on top of her, kissing and licking at her small breasts, then moving slowly down her body, running his lips across her stomach and down to her thighs. As he watched he remembered how salty she’d tasted and how smooth her skin had been. The man on the screen eased himself off the side of the bed so that he was kneeling on the floor with his back to the closets, and pulled her with him so that she lay half on and half off the bed, her thighs either side of his face. He slipped his hands under her backside and kissed her thighs, licking the flesh from her knees to her groin, teasing her until she grabbed his head and pushed his mouth where she wanted it. Chung stopped the picture and studied it and made a note on his clipboard. When he started it again Yo-yo was going wild, bucking her hips and throwing her head from side to side so hard that he had to hold her tightly as he flicked his tongue in and out. It had been the first time that he felt that Yo–yo had actually taken pleasure from their lovemaking. Up until then he’d felt that she was simply being an actress, going through the motions and making the appropriate noises, but he’d known when he kissed her between the legs that she really had come, so much so that she’d almost strangled him with her thighs. Her passion had pushed him over the edge too, and he knew that the next section of the film, the last, showed him rolling Yo-yo on to her front and taking her roughly from behind, his hand over her mouth and her biting his index finger and thrusting herself against him as he grunted and pounded into her. Chung was embarrassed by the sudden recollection of his loss of control and he stopped the video and hit the rewind button, reluctant to see the evidence of his own passion. The screen went blank as the video recorder whirred.
He studied the notes he’d made on the clipboard. Yo–yo might have been just going through the motions most of the time but she’d been exactly what he’d wanted. She’d willingly made love in all the positions he’d asked of her and as he read through his notes he knew that when he had to do it for real he’d be able to keep his face hidden from the camera.
Lehman and Lewis sat on a hard wooden bench and watched as Doherty knelt in front of a gold Buddha with a benevolent smile, its hands cupped at its waist. They were sipping warm Coke as they watched the shaven-headed man light sticks of incense and pray. Tyler had said that he didn’t want Doherty out on his own and had asked that one or other of them always be close by.
“I still don’t understand why we need him or his Huey,” said Lewis. “How much would it cost to buy one?”
An old Chinese woman wailed and waved a wooden tube of fortune-telling sticks as she knelt on a rush mat. Lehman sipped the metallic-tasting Coke. “A few hundred thousand dollars,” he said. “But it’s not as easy as just putting your money down and flying away. You have to show that you have insurance, and supply details of the pilot. There are all sorts of rules and regulations tied up with owning any sort of aircraft.”
“So we’re stuck with the Huey?”
“Yeah. And we couldn’t have had the Huey without taking Doherty with us. He was the key to our robbery, and we were his ticket out of Thailand and back to the real world.”
“I can’t figure out why he wants to go back,” said Lewis. “He was telling me that he got to read Western newspapers left by tourists who visited Udon Thani, so he knows what’s going on. When Tyler first introduced us I thought he was going to be sort of trapped in the past, you know, like he’d stepped out of a time warp, and that we were going to have to fill him in on everything that happened over the past twenty years. But he seems to know more about world affairs than I do.”
“Yeah, can you imagine explaining how Ronald Reagan got to be president?”
The two men laughed and clinked their red and white cans together. Doherty came over, stopping to slip his sandals back on his dusty feet. He looked like a bird that had been stripped of all its feathers. He was scrawny, slightly stooped and had a large nose and deep-set eyes. If it wasn’t for his easy smile he’d look quite sinister, Lehman thought.
“Thanks for waiting, guys,” said Doherty.
“No sweat,” said Lewis.
“You guys want a beer?” He tossed them bottles.
“I still can’t get over you being a monk and drinking,” said Lewis.
Doherty shrugged his slight shoulders. “Being a Buddhist monk isn’t the same as being a priest,” he said. “The Thais are more flexible about their religion. Being a Buddhist has more to do with finding your own path than it has with following prescribed rituals. You don’t get thrown out just because you down a couple of Singha beers or go with a woman. It’s more important that you reach a peace with yourself than screw yourself up by resisting temptation.”
“Sounds like the perfect religion,” said Lewis.
Doherty turned and fixed him with his deep-set eyes, his eyelids half closed like a basking lizard. “In many ways it is, Bart. It was the meditation side tha
t I was drawn to. I’d been interested in it ever since I was a kid, but the monks taught me to do it properly, really to get inside myself. You reach the stage where your meditation is so pure, so uncluttered, that you stop succumbing to the temptations of the real world. That’s why the older monks are celibate. It’s from choice.”
“But you never reached that stage?” said Lehman, throwing his empty can in the bin.
“No, Dan. I never reached that stage.” He grinned and Lehman noticed that two back teeth were missing on the right side of his mouth, clearly the result of primitive dental facilities in northern Thailand.
Lehman looked at his Mickey Mouse watch. Tyler had said that he wanted to see them back at the hotel at four o’clock so they’d have to leave the temple soon and cross the harbour to Hong Kong Island.
“I’ve got to visit the men’s room, guys,” said Lewis, lifting himself up off the bench with a groan. Lehman and Doherty watched him walk away.
“He seems troubled,” said Doherty.
“He’s got personal problems,” said Lehman. “His wife left him and he misses his kid.”
“I think the worry is giving him an ulcer,” said Doherty. “He’s always rubbing his stomach and he doesn’t eat so good.”
Thoughts of Lewis’s cancer filled Lehman’s mind and he quickly moved to change the subject. “You’re not in this for the money, are you, Chuck?”
“Are you?” Doherty replied calmly.
Lehman thought about it for a few moments. “Yes,” he said. “Mainly for the money.” And to make sure that Bart Lewis doesn’t get out of his depth, a voice whispered inside his head.
“So why are you so surprised that money should be a motivating factor in my case? Because you found me in a temple?”
“Not just in a temple. You were a monk.”
“I was a Buddhist. I still am. Becoming a monk was just a way of achieving what I wanted.”
The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 32