The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  “And there’s the fuel,” added Lewis.

  “The fuel will be here within the week,” Tyler promised. He headed towards the door. “See you guys later,” he said over his shoulder.

  Lewis groaned and rubbed his stomach, his eyes closed and his mouth half open. He put his spanner on the concrete floor and took out a bottle of codeine tablets he’d bought at the drugstore. They barely took the edge off the pain and they made him feel nauseous, but they were better than nothing.

  Mr Tsao squatted back on his heels and watched Lewis with watery eyes. “You are sick?” he asked.

  Lewis winced as he chewed and swallowed two of the white tablets. “Headache,” he muttered.

  “I think not,” said Mr Tsao. He wiped the back of his hand under his nose and sniffed. “I think problem your stomach. You are in much pain. And you not eat much.”

  “What are you, my mother?” said Lewis, putting the bottle of tablets back into the pocket of his overalls.

  “Not mother,” said Tsao, his hands on his knees. “Friend. I not like see you hurt.”

  Lewis got to his feet and pulled a face. “I’ll be okay. We’ll be finished soon.”

  Tsao raised his thin eyebrows. “Maybe I can help,” he said.

  Lewis looked at him and massaged his stomach. “I don’t think so, Mr Tsao. If the tablets don’t help, I don’t think there’s much you can do.”

  Tsao pressed his hands against his knees and stood up, his joints cracking like dry twigs. He took a step closer to Lewis and he could smell garlic on his breath.

  “So, pain is bad?” said Tsao.

  “Yes, all right, it hurts,” said Lewis. He knew that Tsao had seen him wincing as they’d worked on the turbine and the gearboxes, so there was little point in continuing the charade. He had grown to like and respect the Chinese mechanic; he was hardworking, a skilled metalworker and he had a dry wit that Lewis appreciated.

  “You have cancer, I think,” said Tsao.

  Lewis was stunned by the man’s perception and his jaw dropped. “How …” His voice faltered before he could finish the question.

  “How I know?” Tsao said. “My wife died two years ago from cancer of the stomach. She not eat, she lose much weight. Before she die she in much pain. Always rubbing stomach.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lewis.

  “We married long time,” said Tsao, a faraway look in his eyes. “She give me many sons. She cry all the time, at night she screamed. Begged me to take away the pain.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lewis repeated. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought that, in all probability, that was how he himself would end up, lying on a bed somewhere screaming for the pain to be taken away. The way Dr Jordan had described it back in Baltimore, the pain he was feeling now was just a shadow of what was to come.

  Tsao’s eyes seemed to refocus and he smiled thinly at Lewis. “Towards the end I give her something to dull pain. If you wish, I get same for you.”

  “What is it?” asked Lewis.

  “Opium,” said Tsao softly.

  Lewis threw his hands up in horror. “Opium?” he said. “You mean heroin. No way, Mr Tsao. No way. I’ve seen that shit destroy too many lives to get involved with it. My home town is riddled with heroin and coke and crack and all the rest of that crap. I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

  Mr Tsao shook his head patiently. “We are not talking about heroin. No need inject. I show you. Chinese use opium for long time.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Lewis. “I’ve seen too many addicts panhandling on the streets.”

  “I think you need not worry about long-term effects,” said Tsao, his voice little more than a whisper. “I think you not have to become addict.”

  Tsao’s words made Lewis feel cold deep down inside and he licked his lips nervously. He couldn’t say anything so he just nodded.

  Tsao took that as acceptance. “I will call number two son. He will bring opium here.”

  Tsao used the second portable telephone, which Tyler had left on one of the workbenches, and the two men worked on the turbine while they waited for Tsao’s son to arrive.

  After an hour they heard a car horn sound and Tsao went outside. He returned with a small polythene packet, about two inches square, which contained a small amount of white powder.

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” said Lewis.

  “Try,” said Tsao. “No need inject. You can chase the dragon.”

  “Chase the dragon?” said Lewis.

  “I show you,” said Tsao. He went over to the area of the warehouse the men used as a kitchen. He put the packet on top of the microwave and picked up a roll of kitchen foil. He tore off a strip about four inches wide and eight inches long and then folded it in half lengthways. He bent the oblong strip into a V-shape and sprinkled a small amount of the powder into the groove. There was a disposable cigarette lighter on the bench next to a butane gas burner and Tsao took it in his right hand. “Watch,” said Tsao. He held the foil strip up to his face so that one end was about three inches below his nose. He ran the lighter along the underside of the foil. “You do this with flame, flame burns powder, you sniff smoke,” said Tsao. “You must move face over strip to keep up with smoke. That is why we call it chasing the dragon. You understand?”

  Lewis nodded and Tsao handed the foil and the lighter to Lewis. He lifted the foil and flicked the lighter on. Tsao nodded encouragingly, and Lewis played the flame under the end of the foil closest to his face. It bubbled and smoked and he breathed in deeply.

  “Not so fast,” cautioned Tsao. “One slow breath is best.”

  Lewis moved the lighter up the foil and more of the powder turned into sweet grey smoke. It began to drift up into his eyes, making them water, and he moved his head forward, chasing the fumes. He continued to inhale the smoke. He was so busy concentrating on catching the fumes that he inadvertently played the flame over his fingers and he yelped and dropped the foil.

  “Shit!” he screamed and put his scorched hand under a running tap.

  “Chasing the dragon needs practice,” said Tsao sympathetically. “How you feel?”

  Lewis dried his hand on a paper towel. He could feel a warm glow concentrate around his chest and spread through his veins, taking with it a feeling of well-being, of peace. It seemed to fold around the searing pain in his stomach and envelop it like a cotton wool shroud and gradually it began to diminish until the pain became an ache and then the ache became just a memory. “It feels good, Mr Tsao,” he said gratefully.

  “I thought so,” said Mr Tsao. He picked up the small bag of powder and handed it to Lewis. “Use only when pain very bad,” he cautioned. “When this finished, I get you more.”

  The roads in Kowloon were clear of traffic as William Fielding drove the Saab out of the Lion Rock Tunnel and into the early morning sunshine. Even crowded Hong Kong had to sleep, and at five o’clock on a Monday morning the colony’s roads were no busier than an English country town’s.

  The Saab handled well, but the car felt claustrophobic in comparison with the Mercedes, and the air-conditioning was nowhere near as efficient. He could have requisitioned a Mercedes from one of the bank’s senior employees but decided instead to use his wife’s car. The visit to the Shatin stables was, after all, a private one.

  The white grandstand loomed ahead of him and he waved his pass at the security guard at the entrance to the stables. The old man in the dark blue uniform barely glanced at the pass and he saluted as he recognised Fielding at the wheel. It was just one of the perks of being a steward of the Royal Hong Kong Jockey Club. He parked between a white Rolls-Royce and a dark green Bentley and walked over to the stable block where his horses were based. Fielding’s two horses cost him more than 25,000 HK dollars a month in stable fees and brought in only a fraction of that in winnings, but he relished being an owner, both for the excitement of watching them race and the social cachet it brought.

  He showed his pass to another security guard outsid
e the block but he too saluted without looking at it. One of his horses, Bank On It, was in its stall being brushed by his ma-foo, or stable boy. The stable boy, actually a fifty-year-old man, greeted Fielding. Under the system operated by the stables, a ma-foo was allocated two horses and he cared for them for as long as they raced in Hong Kong. The stable was air-conditioned to a constant twenty-two degrees and gentle piped music seeped out of concealed speakers and the floors were covered with an expensive Japanese floor-covering so that they wouldn’t have to walk on bare concrete. The racehorses lived in better accommodation than most Hong Kong workers.

  “Galloping Dragon in pool,” said the ma-foo as he brushed Bank On It’s glossy coat with long, firm strokes.

  “Is Mr Kwan with him?” asked Fielding.

  The ma-foo nodded without looking up. Unlike the security guards, the ma-foo was not impressed by Fielding’s presence. He lived for his horses and cared little for the owners.

  Fielding went over to the swimming pool. His trainer, Archie Kwan, was walking along the poolside watching Galloping Dragon swimming. The horse was midway along the pool as his ma-foo matched its pace, holding a tether in his hand to keep it centred in its lane. Kwan said something to the ma-foo, another middle-aged man, and both men looked at the animal’s rear legs. The ma-foo nodded and said something in Cantonese.

  Archie Kwan was one of the most successful trainers in the colony with thirty-six horses under his control and more than his fair share of winners. He was forty-three years old, had a wife and two teenage mistresses, a Rolls-Royce and Canadian citizenship. He was the Hong Kong dream personified, thought Fielding as he walked up behind the man.

  “William!” said Kwan, extending a hand. He referred to all his owners by their first name, no matter who they were. He trained horses for some of the richest and most powerful Chinese businessmen in the colony and Fielding was one of just a few gweilos he had agreed to take on. “What brings you out so early?”

  “I thought I’d watch trackwork for a while,” said Fielding.

  “Sure,” said Kwan. He nodded at the horse in the pool. “He didn’t do us any favours at Shatin,” he said. “That tendon is still worrying him.”

  “He’ll be okay, though?”

  Kwan sucked air through his teeth. “He’ll be fine by next season, but before … I don’t know, William. Maybe, maybe not.”

  “I’d really like him to do well in the last race of the season,” said Fielding.

  “Me too, but there’s only so much we can do. If you like, I can rest him until the final meeting.”

  “That might be best,” agreed Fielding. A win would be nice. It was about time something went his way, he thought to himself. Nothing had gone well for him for some time. He’d drawn a blank with every merger opportunity he’d pursued, his car was still missing, and Anne had been decidedly frosty over the past few days. He knew that he hadn’t been spending enough time with his wife but she didn’t seem to appreciate just what a difficult time the bank was going through. That was one of the reasons he’d made the early morning drive to Shatin – he was finding it harder to sleep and he knew that his tossing and turning annoyed Anne.

  “So, I’ll hold back Galloping Dragon until the last meeting,” said Kwan. “Maybe I’ll see you in the winner’s enclosure.”

  “That would be a treat,” said Fielding. He looked at his watch. “I’ll go and watch the trackwork,” he said. “Keep up the good work, Archie.”

  Kwan gave him a thumbs-up and a grin. Fielding walked outside, his head downcast and his hands in his pocket. He went and stood by the edge of the track and leaned on the barrier. Three chestnut geldings cantered around, their Chinese jockeys talking to each other and grinning. Fielding watched the horses as they worked up a sweat, but his thoughts were confined to the problems facing the Kowloon and Canton Bank.

  Lehman could see that the Huey was going to be finished well on time. Under Lewis’s supervision the vets had stripped out the helicopter’s wiring, checked every inch, and refitted it. Lewis had installed the scanner they bought from the Tsim Sha Tsui tourist shop after discovering that several of the channels did use English on occasions. It seemed that when British officers were talking on air they would use their own language, but Chinese speaking to Chinese would always use Cantonese. They had also used the scanner to pick up conversations between airline pilots and Kai Tak control tower – all air traffic communication was in English.

  The turbine and gearboxes had been given a clean bill of health and installed after Lewis had fitted the skids. The rotors, main and rear, were still lying on the floor, and Lehman wasn’t fully happy with the response of the hydraulics, but he doubted that they faced any major hurdles. The bird would fly.

  Mr Tsao and Lewis had turned in, tired from their labours, and Carmody was in the shower. Tyler had taken the Toyota and said that he wouldn’t be back until after midnight. Lehman walked slowly round the Huey, touching the warm metal with his hand. He was eager to be at the controls, to feel the surge of power as the rotors bit into the air and the Huey surged forward. He had flown helicopters in California to keep his licence up to date but he had not flown a Huey since he returned from Vietnam and he was looking forward to it. Tyler had promised them that they would test the turbine within the week, though he would not allow them to take the slick outside the warehouse.

  Lehman went to the kitchen area and opened the fridge. There were several cans of beer inside, American and local. He took out a Budweiser, closed the door, and stood for a while in front of a free-standing fan, allowing the cool air to blow across his face as he popped the can and drank.

  He felt edgy as if sleep would be a long time coming and he decided to take a walk outside. When he reached the door he saw Horvitz sitting with his back to the wire fence around the compound, staring up at the night sky. He was wearing his dark glasses as usual, Lehman noticed. He went back to the refrigerator and took out another can of Budweiser for Horvitz who nodded his thanks and put the can by his side, unopened.

  “It was a hot one today,” said Lehman, sipping his beer and looking up at the stars.

  “It was that,” said Horvitz.

  “What do you reckon it is now? Seventy degrees?”

  Horvitz shook his head. “Seventy-three,” he said confidently.

  “How can you be so sure?” Lehman asked.

  “Hear the crickets?” said Horvitz. Lehman had the feeling that Horvitz had his eyes closed behind the sunglasses.

  The insects were chirping furiously. “Yeah?” said Lehman.

  “Count the number of chirps in fifteen seconds. Add forty to that figure. That gives you the temperature.”

  “You’re kidding!” said Lehman.

  “Try it.”

  Lehman looked at his watch and counted the cricket chirps as his second hand moved from twelve to three. Thirty-three. “Okay, so there are thirty-three chirps. Thirty-three plus forty is seventy-three. But how can I check what the temperature is?”

  “Trust me, Dan. It works. It’s an old country trick.”

  Lehman shook his head in bewilderment, not sure if Horvitz was pulling his leg or not. Lehman drank in silence. An airliner boomed overhead, heading towards China. After a while Horvitz opened his Budweiser and drank deeply, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a fishing float as he swallowed.

  “What are you doing here, Dan?” asked Horvitz.

  “Just wanted a drink,” said Lehman.

  “No, I mean what are you doing in Hong Kong?”

  “The heist, you mean? I need the money. I need a lot of money, quickly, or bad things are going to happen to me. It’s complicated.”

  Horvitz nodded and drank again. “We’re a mixed bunch, aren’t we? You, me, Carmody and Lewis.”

  “And Doherty. Let’s not forget the mad monk.”

  “Yeah. And Doherty. Do you ever wonder why the colonel chose us?”

  Lehman shrugged. He rolled the Budweiser can between the palms of his hands. “He wanted
me because I flew Hueys and because I still fly helicopters. Bart Lewis is a first-class mechanic and crew chief. Carmody I’m not sure about. He’s the sort of guy who’s prepared to take a risk.”

  “You mean he’s got nothing to lose?”

  “Yeah, maybe that’s what I mean. Maybe none of us have anything to lose.”

  “You know that the colonel fixed it for Carmody to go on the trip to Vietnam?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, he told me when he’d had too much to drink one night. Met the colonel in a bar in Cleveland. Larry and his Purple Heart. Shot in the line of duty.” His voice was bitter.

  Lehman turned to look at him. “Are you saying he wasn’t wounded? What about his arm?”

  “You might ask yourself how many doorgunners got to be shot in the hand,” he said quietly. “Not many. Not unless they were self-inflicted.”

  “You think so?” said Lehman.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Is that what you were thinking – you were wondering why Tyler would choose Carmody?”

  Horvitz drained his can and squeezed it with his right hand. The thin metal tube crumpled like paper. “I wonder why he chose Carmody, sure. But I’m even more curious to know why he wanted me.”

  “Why did you go back to Vietnam?”

  “A guy from the VA came to see me, said I could go back for free. All expenses paid. He pretty much talked me into it. I was happy enough in the woods.”

  “The woods?”

  “Yeah, I was living rough just over the Canadian border. There are quite a few vets there. People leave us alone, we hunt, fish, take care of ourselves.”

  “And they found you there?”

  “The guy said they were looking for war heroes. Said that with my medals the Vets Association would pay for the whole shooting match.”

  “You’ve got medals?”

  “Have I got medals?” said Horvitz, throwing the crushed can backwards over the fence. “Yeah, Dan, I’ve got medals. I’ve got a Silver Star, a Purple Heart with Oak Leaf Clusters, three Bronze Stars for valour, two of them with Oak Leaf Clusters, the Army Commendation Medal for valour with Oak Leaf Clusters. I’ve got enough oak leaves for a whole fucking tree, but I still got spat on when I got home. I still got called Baby Killer.”