“Fuck your mother, you could have killed him!” cursed Chung, kneeling down and feeling for a pulse in Fielding’s neck. Chung sighed with relief when he felt a strong, steady heartbeat. Despite Fielding’s laboured breathing and the blood dripping down his temple, he was in no danger.
“Up against the wall!” Wong ordered, covering Chung with the gun. Chung backed away and stood next to the three uniformed guards. He put his hands on his head. “You three, turn round,” said Wong. The three guards shuffled round. All were sweating and wide-eyed.
“I want to show you that I am to be taken seriously,” Wong said in quiet Cantonese. “I want to show you what will happen if you do not do exactly as I say.” He smiled tightly, pointed the gun at Mr Woo’s chest, and fired twice. The explosions echoed around the soundproof control room, deafening them all. Two red blossoms appeared on Woo’s pale blue shirt, dark at the centre, pale at the edges. His hands clawed slowly down his chest, his mouth working soundlessly; his eyelids fluttered and he slid backwards down the wall leaving a bloody smudge on the white paint-work. The two surviving guards stared at their dead colleague, then looked fearfully at Wong. He smiled and pointed the gun at the space between them. “Do exactly as I say, or you will suffer the same fate.” The men nodded frantically.
Wong waved his gun at the television monitors. “Which of these covers the delivery entrance?” he asked.
One of the men pointed to a black and white screen and Wong went over to it, keeping a wary eye on his captives. He could see the Mercedes outside.
“Open the door and let the car in,” he said. The man who’d pointed at the screen stepped to a console and pressed a red button. Seconds later Wong saw the Mercedes drive in. “And now lower the gate,” Wong ordered. “Then get back to the wall and put your hands back on your head.” The men did as they were told. “Now, where are the keys to the vaults? Both vaults.”
One of the guards shook his head. “The vaults have time locks. They won’t open until tomorrow.”
“I’ll worry about that,” said Wong. “Give me the keys.”
The guard who had opened the gate, who Wong decided was clearly the more co-operative of the two, went over to a steel box mounted on the wall and took out two key-rings. He placed them on the console near Wong and went back to the wall and put his hands on his head without being asked. Wong kept the gun trained on the men while he waited for the next car to arrive. In less than five minutes a second Mercedes appeared on the screen, this one with black windows. “Open the gate again,” he ordered. The second car was admitted.
Wong scanned the monitors and saw the one which covered the delivery area. He saw five Red Poles climb out of the car and head for the exit. The camera in the elevator showed them entering and pressing the button for the control room floor, and he watched as they moved along the corridor. “Open the security doors,” Wong ordered, and his instructions were obeyed. Through the glass door he saw the five men come around the corner, guns in hand. He opened the door and let them in.
One of them immediately began trying Fielding up, roughly binding his arms and legs and stuffing a gag in his mouth. Another forced one of the guards to strip off his uniform, while a third tied the other guard’s hands behind him.
“Tie him, too,” Wong ordered, pointing his gun at Chung.
When the guard was down to his socks and underpants, he was tied up too, while one of the Red Poles took off his own leather jacket and jeans and changed into the uniform. When he was ready he stood in front of Wong who nodded his approval. “Go down and replace the man on reception,” said Wong. “Try not to kill him. Bind him and gag him and bring him up to the control room.” Another Red Pole had been designated to go down with him, and they left the control room together. Wong explained to one of the Red Poles which monitor covered the delivery gate outside and which was the interior view, and how to operate the gate. Wong kept his gun on Chung, another Red Pole covered the two guards and together they left the control room and went down the corridor to the elevator.
Lehman looked at his watch. “Time to go,” he said. Doherty nodded and climbed up into the co-pilot’s station. Mr Tsao stood by the workbench, looking at the photographs of the racetrack and the maps. Lewis and Horvitz put their M16s in the back of the Huey and went over to the main sliding door. Together they pushed it back, allowing the bright sunshine to stream in. Lehman put on a pair of sunglasses and slid his flight helmet on. Doherty did the same.
“You got the frequencies?” Lehman asked.
“Sure,” said Doherty. He reached behind his seat and showed Lehman a black clipboard. On it were written a list of frequencies for Kai Tak Airport and various police stations they could expect to fly over en route. Doherty programmed them into the scanner. Carmody put his M16 on one of the seats and hauled himself into the back. He sat in the side seat, the one normally used by the door-gunner, and he rested the rifle on his thighs. He gave a thumbs up to Lehman, showing that he was ready.
Horvitz and Lewis jogged back to the Huey, the door fully open. The door was almost as tall as the warehouse and Lehman had already calculated that there was enough room to get the Huey in a hover and move it forward and out under its own power. Horvitz leapt into the back of the helicopter and scooped up his rifle. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose, rubbed his short beard and grinned at Carmody.
Lewis picked up the fire extinguisher and stood by the side of the Huey as Doherty opened the operator’s manual and put it on his lap.
Lehman clicked the radio trigger switch. “Let’s do it,” he said.
Doherty nodded and began reading his checklist out loud. They ran through all the checks and Lehman pressed the starter trigger. The electric starter motor whined and the turbine whistled like a banshee. Lehman kept his eye on the exhaust-gas temperature gauge as the rotors whirled above his head. Tsao turned his back on the maps and watched the helicopter.
Lehman checked that all the gauges were in the green and motioned to Lewis to climb into the back of the Huey. He waited until Lewis was seated and had his rifle in his hands before clicking his radio mike on. “Everything okay?” he asked Doherty.
“Let’s do it,” Doherty replied.
Lehman pulled on the collective and eased the cyclic forward. The skids grated along the concrete floor and Lehman increased the pressure on the collective. The turbine roared and the rotors speeded up. Lehman allowed the Huey’s nose to rise almost a foot before compensating. He pressed his left foot down to stop the helicopter’s natural tendency to spin clockwise and pushed the cyclic so that the Huey crept forward. It inched out of the warehouse like a family car leaving a suburban garage.
Once the whirling rotor was clear of the door Lehman increased power and felt the Huey soar upwards. The ground flashed beneath them, then they were over the perimeter fence and banking away from the wooded hill that overlooked the compound. Lehman clicked his radio mike on. “I didn’t hear any tapping,” he said to Doherty. “You?”
“No, me neither,” answered his co-pilot. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
Lehman kept the Huey less than a hundred feet from the ground and pointed its nose south, towards Hong Kong Island and the racetrack.
Neil Coleman picked at his teeth with his thumbnail and watched the metal gate shudder upwards to admit a Mercedes 560SEL with black windows. It was the fourth he’d seen in the last half hour, and he still had no idea what was going on. He’d arrived at the depository just in time to see Fielding and Chung walk into the front of the building, and a few minutes later their car had driven into the side entrance. It had remained inside, but four more Mercedes cars had arrived, and three had left. Coleman had resisted radioing for reinforcements because he wasn’t sure yet what he’d tell headquarters, or how he’d explain his own presence outside the depository. None of the registration numbers matched numbers of stolen cars he was searching for, yet the fact that they all had black windows suggested they belonged to the same people. He wondered if perha
ps the bank was secretly moving its assets out of the depository and had chosen to use cars rather than armoured vans. It seemed unlikely in the extreme, but he couldn’t think of any other explanation for Fielding’s presence. There was another reason for not calling in his observations, and that was that he remembered what Donaldson had said about the police preparing for a robbery at the racetrack. They wouldn’t appreciate being called out on a wild-goose chase. He’d have to be one hundred per cent certain that something was amiss before calling it in. He tapped on his steering wheel and waited.
When the dust clouds had settled and the throbbing of the Huey had receded into the distance, Mr Tsao closed the main door to the warehouse. It took all his strength and he was sweating by the time he’d finished. He poured himself a glass of water at the sink and then went into his bedroom to pack his holdall. He checked that he had left nothing in the room, and folded his blankets neatly on the camp bed before leaving. On the way through the warehouse he stopped in front of the maps and photographs. He placed his holdall on the workbench and stared at the wall. He heard a scuffling sound behind him and he turned around, but slowly as if he knew what he’d find. Tyler stood in the centre of the warehouse in his police inspector’s uniform, the peak of his cap down low over his nose, his back locked straight as if he were on parade. In his left hand he had a white plastic carrier bag.
“I did not hear you drive up,” said Tsao quietly.
“I walked,” said Tyler.
“I see,” said Tsao, as if he was talking to himself.
Tyler began to walk towards Tsao, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the concrete floor.
Tsao nodded, almost imperceptibly, at the pictures pinned up on the wall. “It will not work, of course,” he said.
“Of course,” agreed Tyler, still walking.
“Ah,” said Tsao. “I see.”
“You did an excellent job of work, Mr Tsao,” said Tyler. “You are a true craftsman.”
“Thank you,” said Tsao. He turned his back on Tyler and studied the wall. If he heard the sound of Tyler’s gun being cocked he showed no sign of it. The bullet exploded through the back of his skull, throwing blood, bone and brain matter across the maps and pictures of Hong Kong.
Tyler went over to the barrels of fuel and oil and took an incendiary device out of the carrier bag. The device consisted of a cheap alarm clock, a detonator and a small amount of explosive, and it was similar to those which had been used at the Shatin racetrack. It had been designed and built by the man who had made the Shatin bombs. Tyler checked that the time was set for ten minutes, placed it by the side of the barrels, and walked away, out into the searing sunshine.
Michael Wong stood in the depository’s receiving area and watched his men load up the fifth Mercedes. As each car arrived it brought with it a driver and two Red Poles, and there were now ten men helping to transfer the gold from the main vault.
The guards had been amazed to find that the keys opened the vault doors and that the timing mechanisms had operated twenty-four hours earlier than expected. The two men had looked at each other, surprise written all over their faces, and Wong knew it wouldn’t be long before they reached the conclusion that Woo must have set them incorrectly. It didn’t matter, Woo was no longer a problem. Wong had opened the main vault first and his Red Poles had begun loading the gold bullion on to metal trolleys and then into the lift up to the ground floor and along to the loading area. He’d then taken the two guards, their hands bound behind their backs, to the safety-deposit box vault. It had opened and Wong had asked them where the keys were.
One of the guards, the one in just his shorts and socks, had protested that the bank’s clients had the only keys and that without them they couldn’t get into the boxes. Wong had shot him in the foot and asked the other guard. He had shown Wong where the replacement keys were kept. Wong knew that the bank kept duplicate keys in case of loss, though it tended not to broadcast the information. They had brought electric drills with them as a precautionary measure, but there had been no need. Two of the Red Poles were methodically working their way through the boxes, starting with the large ones. Two more triad soldiers were emptying the boxes and dividing the contents into four piles: gold; cash; valuables; and rubbish – legal papers and the like. The two guards had been bound and gagged and left in the safety-deposit box reception area. Chung had been put on the sofa, his arms still tied.
The men finished loading the Mercedes and one of them operated the gate, allowing the driver to ease the car out into the street. As it left, another Mercedes arrived and drove straight in. Two Red Poles climbed out and helped unload the next trolley.
Wong looked at his watch. It was all going to plan, five cars loaded up and on their way: a total of thirty-five million American dollars. Two were being loaded up, another three would arrive within the next half hour. Tyler was due within the next fifteen minutes so Wong went to check the men in the safety-deposit-box vault. As part of his pay-off, Tyler was picking up five million dollars in gold and currency. Wong caught the elevator and went up one floor. He walked by the two bound guards and nodded at Chung.
More than half the boxes were open and the pile of cash was now almost waist-high. There was a large canvas bag at the entrance, the sort used by sailors to stash their gear, and Wong took it over to the banknotes. He knelt down and began putting bundles of hundred and thousand American dollar notes into the bag. It didn’t take him long before he had four million dollars and he hefted it on to his shoulder and took it back to the elevator.
When he arrived back at the receiving area another Mercedes was arriving. He dropped the canvas bag on the floor and told one of his Red Poles to put aside one million dollars in gold bullion.
The air traffic controller looked at his radar screen and blinked his eyes, twice. A small blip had appeared from nowhere on the screen, showing that something was in the air about five miles north of the airport. Whatever it was it was not using a transponder. It moved like a small plane or a helicopter but no one had filed a flight plan from that direction and there were no airfields nearby. He flicked his microphone on. “Unidentified aircraft flying five miles north of Hong Kong International, this is Hong Kong Approach, please respond on 119.1.” There was no reply. He flicked over to the tower frequency, 118.7 MHz, and tried again. Still no response. He flicked back to 119.1 MHz.
“Unidentified aircraft flying four miles north of Hong Kong International, this is Hong Kong Approach. If you can hear me turn left and enter a holding pattern. If you can receive but not transmit, squawk 7600.”
He studied the blip on his screen. It was moving inexorably south. He repeated the message on the tower frequency. No effect.
The controller called his supervisor over and explained what was happening.
“Are you sure it isn’t a student pilot from one of the flight schools?” asked the supervisor.
The controller shook his head. “It appeared from nowhere. And there are no Cessnas out at the moment.”
“No radio contact?”
“No, and no transponder signal. I’ve asked him to squawk 7600 if his radio is out but his transponder is still inactive. If he was one.”
“Where did it come from?”
The controller shrugged. “Heading south, but it appeared from nowhere. Near Shatin, I guess.”
The supervisor nodded. “Try him on the Guangzhou Control frequencies, 132.4 and 123.9, just in case he’s reading his charts wrong.”
He called across the room to a controller who was about to take a break and asked him to phone through to Guangzhou to see if they had any information on the rogue aircraft. He turned back to the controller tracking the blip and put his hand on his shoulder. “You concentrate on the unidentified aircraft,” he said calmly once the man had tried the Guangzhou frequencies unsuccessfully. “Hand over your aircraft to Danny and Eric.” He shouted over to a controller sitting at the far left of the tower. “Danny, we’ve got an unidentified aircraft three
miles north. Have you anyone there who can give us a visual?”
“I’ve a 747 inbound for landing at 1,500 feet, due west.”
“Try them,” said the supervisor. “Put it on the speaker.”
A uniformed police sergeant sitting at the side of the radar room stood up and walked over to the supervisor. “This could be it,” the supervisor said in anticipation of the man’s unspoken question. The wall speaker crackled into life and the whole room listened as Danny Tse hailed the 747. “Five-Eight-Two, this is Hong Kong Tower. Report if you see traffic at ten o’clock at three hundred feet.”
“Hong Kong Tower, please confirm three hundred feet, Five-Eight-Two.”
“Five-Eight-Two, that’s affirmative, traffic at three hundred feet, ten o’clock your position.”
There was a pause then the pilot of the 747 came back on the air. “Hong Kong Tower, traffic in sight, Five-Eight-Two.”
“Five-Eight-Two, please identify traffic.”
“Hong Kong Tower, it’s a helicopter, flying low. It looks like a green Huey. And you’re not going to believe this, but I can see men in uniforms carrying rifles. Five-Eight-Two.”
Tse looked over at the supervisor and raised his eyebrows.
“Warn all traffic that we have an unidentified helicopter in the area,” said the supervisor. “Give it lots of room. God knows what the lunatics are up to.”
The sergeant switched on his own radio and began speaking to the airport police station while the controller continued trying to contact the helicopter.
Coleman had counted nine Mercedes in, and eight had left. With the tinted windows it was impossible to tell who was driving, or how many passengers there were. For all he knew Fielding or Chung could have left in one of them. After he’d waited for ten minutes, he’d taken a walk by the front of the building, but everything had seemed in order. A uniformed guard was sitting behind the desk in the small reception area and he’d looked up as Coleman went past.
The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 52