He’d gone back to the Jeep and tuned his radio to the Happy Valley frequency, 449.625 MHz. He heard nothing about the supposed robbery so he flicked to the emergency unit frequencies, 449.525 MHz for the east of the island, and 449.250 MHz for the west. Still nothing, not that he could understand, anyway. His Cantonese was really abysmal, he knew, but, as he had no long-term plans to stay in the force, it didn’t worry him overmuch.
He was toying with the idea of calling up one of the Kowloon stations and getting them to run a check with the Kowloon and Canton Bank when a uniformed police officer drove up in an unmarked car, a white Toyota. Coleman got a side view of the guy as he drove past, but didn’t recognise him: he had a prominent hooked nose and cold, blue eyes. He had short grey hair, cut in a military fashion and he looked to be in his fifties. Coleman thought he knew most of the expatriate officers so he racked his brains for who it might be.
The man beeped his horn and the metal gate rattled up. A Mercedes drove out and the man slowly guided the Toyota inside. Coleman frowned. The fact that a Royal Hong Kong Police officer was involved made him feel a little easier, but he was still in a state of total confusion.
Lewis moved his head in the airstream, enjoying the feel of the cold air rippling across his face and through his hair. He closed his eyes and his mind spun back to Vietnam, to the countless missions he’d flown as crew chief, back in the days before he’d had a son to worry about and a cancer eating away at his insides. A burst of gunfire jolted him out of his reverie. He opened his eyes to see Carmody firing into the sea below, a satisfied grin on his face. He turned and gave a thumbs-up to Lewis. “Just checking,” he mouthed.
They’d avoided the tower blocks of Kowloon by flying to the west, over the container terminals of Kwai Chung and the countless freighters moored around Stonecutters Island. They were so low they could see the looks of surprise on the faces of the Asian sailors below. Several even waved, and Carmody had waved back, then pointed his M16 at them and laughed when they’d ducked.
Once they’d reached the sea Lehman had taken the Huey even lower as they flew east over Victoria Harbour, the bustling shops of Tsim Sha Tsui on the left, the office blocks of Central on their right. They flashed over a wooden Chinese junk bobbing in the water, where three fishermen in coolie hats looked up open-mouthed and then were gone, and they banked steeply to avoid a Star Ferry which was ploughing towards Hong Kong Island, packed to the gills with housewives, schoolchildren and tourists. Lewis saw a man in a T-shirt and shorts aim his camcorder at the Huey but doubted that he managed to get a shot. In Nam there were two safe ways to fly over the jungle: so high that the VC fire couldn’t reach them, or low and fast so that they didn’t have time to react.
Lewis looked over the island, at the glittering glass towers, shiny bright against the green peaks behind them. The sun sparkled off the tallest tower in the island, a twisted knife of glass and steel which stood head and shoulders above the rest, made even taller by a twin-pronged structure on top that looked like a massive television antenna. To its right was the futuristic grey steel headquarters of the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank, and behind it a building shaped like an elongated wedding cake which was topped by the logo of the Kowloon and Canton Bank. Lehman put the Huey into a steep bank to the right so that Lewis felt as if he were suspended over the water and they flew between the towers, their reflection speckling off a dozen different surfaces, metal, glass and marble, as if they were flying in formation, while the throbbing thud of the rotors echoed back from the buildings. Lewis reached for the cardboard box which contained the smoke and gas canisters and he began removing the small wire clips which stopped them going off accidentally. When he had prepared twenty of the canisters he repeated the process with the box of stun grenades.
He looked up to see Carmody grinning at him. “Yeah!” yelled Carmody above the beat of the rotors. “Rock and roll! Rock and fucking roll!”
Phil Donaldson watched the horses being coaxed into the starting gate for the last race. He was starting to wonder if perhaps somebody really had been pulling Tommy Lai’s chain. None of the anti-triad men posing as tellers had reported anything unusual and in another half an hour the grandstand would be empty and the Jockey Club’s millions would be safely locked away in the underground vault. Donaldson looked across at Paul Penycate and realised that exactly the same thought was going through the superintendent’s mind.
The damp patches under Donaldson’s armpits had grown steadily larger throughout the afternoon and he could feel sweat trickling down his back and soaking into his boxer shorts.
Tommy Lai had disappeared during the fifth race, saying that he wanted to try to contact his informer. Donaldson reckoned he was just keeping out of the way in case the whole thing fell apart. Penycate now had more than 300 men at various points around the track and was growing more nervous by the minute. Donaldson was considering making his own excuses and leaving.
Penycate’s radio crackled and he answered in fluent Cantonese. It was Kowloon headquarters, relaying a message from the sergeant they’d sent to sit in on Air Traffic Control at Kai Tak.
“It’s happening,” said Penycate. “They’ve spotted a helicopter, heading this way. I’m going to call in more men.”
Donaldson nodded, he’d heard and understood the transmission. And he’d heard that the men in the helicopter were carrying rifles. Penycate was already talking into his radio mike, warning the marksmen to be ready.
Michael Wong and Joel Tyler surveyed the gold bullion which had been placed into three metal cases, the sort used by professional photographers.
“Takes up a surprisingly small amount of space, a million dollars,” said Tyler.
Wong nodded. “It’s heavy, though. I’m surprised you want any of it in gold.”
“Where I’m going, gold is a better currency than cash.” Tyler was planning to use a triad speedboat to take him out to sea where he would rendezvous with a larger boat which would take him to Thailand. Josh had stipulated that he would expect payment in gold, and Tyler had readily agreed. The two men watched as the gold and a canvas bag of dollars were loaded into Tyler’s car.
“Are you going to keep the uniform on?” asked Wong with a smile. Tyler’s appearance in the depository had caused something of a stir, and one of the Red Poles had actually levelled his gun before Wong had shouted a warning.
“It has its uses,” said Tyler. “I’ll change when I reach the boat.”
Wong smiled. “It suits you, Colonel Tyler.”
The gate rattled up and a van in the livery of the Kowloon and Canton Bank drove in. Wong shouted over to two of his Red Poles to begin loading the valuables from the deposit boxes. “This is going well,” Wong said to Tyler. “We already have nine cars on their way, the tenth is being loaded now. We’ll have the two vans loaded within five minutes.” He looked at his watch. “I would think that the first of the cars are already in Chinese waters.”
“You’ve cleared the vaults?” asked Tyler.
“As good as,” said Wong. “We’ll have stripped them of all their gold, and most of the cash. I’m not an expert but I think we’ve found diamonds and precious stones worth in the region of thirty million dollars. Some bearer bonds, too. We don’t have the space for the small bills, or for the antiques, and we’ve had time to open only eighty per cent of the boxes. But even so, I would say the operation has been a complete success.”
“It should be, it was planned to perfection,” said Tyler. “Where is Chung?”
“He is in reception on the floor below us. He thought it best we maintain the illusion that he is our prisoner.”
“That makes sense,” said Tyler. “Well, I shall leave you now.” He shook hands with Wong. “Give him my regards and tell him I’ll be in touch when it’s all blown over.”
Wong grinned. “Somehow, Colonel Tyler, I don’t think this will ever blow over.”
The Huey flashed between two residential tower blocks, so close that Lehman could see the i
tems of clothing hanging out to dry on poles below the kitchen windows. Through the Plexiglas he looked down across the track to the grandstand. He pushed the cyclic forward and eased off on the collective, swooping down like a hawk. He could see racehorses in the starting gate and knew that the last race was just about to start. His timing had been perfect, and he felt a professional pride in the fact that he’d got his wind drift and weight calculations dead on. He took the Huey down to fifty feet above the ground and put her in a gentle bank so that the underside of the helicopter swung towards the thousands of spectators. He turned so that he was flying parallel to the grandstand and slowed the speed down so that the men in the back could throw out the smoke and gas canisters every ten feet or so. He took a quick look over his shoulder and saw Lewis, Carmody and Horvitz activating the canisters and lobbing them into the crowds. Within seconds thick, choking smoke had obscured the spectators on the lower levels and by the time the Huey had reached the far end of the grandstand people were pushing and fighting to get to the exists. Horvitz lifted up the box that had contained the smoke bombs to show that it was empty and Lewis pushed over the box of stun grenades.
Carmody screamed obscenities at the panicking crowds as he grabbed for a stun grenade with his good arm. He pulled out its pin and threw it into the stand like a baseball pitcher with something to prove, and as Lehman put the Huey in a steep bank it exploded with a deafening roar. Lehman flew back along the grandstand, higher this time because the smoke was obscuring the ground, while the men in the back tossed the stun grenades down. The Huey was followed by a line of explosions which intensified the panic below. Men and women were screaming and shouting and for a wild moment Lehman flashed back to Nam, landing in a hot LZ to pick up wounded grunts, shells from VC mortars thumping into the ground like a giant’s footsteps. He shook his head and pulled and twisted the collective to gain height as he reached the end of the grandstand. The Huey soared up as Horvitz threw out the last of the stun grenades.
The crowd had spilled over on to the track in an attempt to get away from the choking smoke and the thunder-flashes. They left behind others motionless on the ground, trampled in the stampede. Lehman saw startled faces in the private boxes, men in dark suits and women in long dresses, backing away from the helicopter with fear in their eyes, holding their hands up as if trying to ward the Huey away. Horvitz and Carmody waved their M16s and pretended to fire as the helicopter climbed higher.
Donnie Choi grated the gears of the truck as he fumbled with the gear stick. His hands were sweating and he wiped them one at a time on his cut-off denim jeans. There was a small fan mounted on the dashboard and plugged into the cigarette lighter socket and Choi turned his face to it. He was bare-chested and there was a sheen of sweat over the tattoo of a hawk which swooped between his nipples. Four lines of traffic were merging into two which then moved slowly into the tunnel like burrowing snakes. A Nissan driven by a middle-aged gweipor drew up alongside Choi’s truck with her indicator flashing but he pretended not to see her and moved forward a foot or so, refusing to allow her in. The truck he was driving was old and the sides were scraped with a dozen different paints. The woman decided that she didn’t want to risk her Nissan’s paintwork and let Choi go first. He smiled to himself. He hoped the gweipor would be behind him in the tunnel.
On the back of the truck were twenty barrels of concentrated acid, tied with ropes. A warning notice on each barrel, in English and Chinese, warned that the fumes were not to be inhaled. Choi looked at the cheap digital watch on his wrist. He was making good time. He wondered how Rocky Kan was getting on in the eastern harbour crossing.
The traffic ahead of him began to speed up and he drove out of the bright sunlight into the fluorescent lights of the tunnel. Choi leant down and picked up a piece of rope under the dashboard. He held it on his knee and steered the truck with his right hand. He slowed to allow the car in front to get further ahead, then as he reached the low point of the tunnel he pulled hard on the rope and accelerated. The barrels spilled out of the back of the truck and crashed on to the ground, breaking open. Acid gushed out and white fumes began to stream into the air. One barrel spun to the left and hurtled into the front of a taxi in the opposite lane and the car crashed into the wall as it tried to avoid it. A delivery van hit the taxi and a minibus slammed into the car. Within seconds the tunnel was in total disarray. The acid had begun eating into the tyres of the cars just behind Choi’s truck and the drivers were panicking, sounding their horns and attempting to reverse. Choi slammed on his brakes, pulled the rope completely into his cab, stashed it under his seat, then climbed out and stood watching the chaos he’d caused.
Neil Coleman fingered the mike on the police radio and studied the metal gate leading to the inside of the depository. He had counted ten Mercedes in, all of them with darkened windows, and nine had left. Coleman had noticed that the cars which came out were lower to the ground than when they went in, as if they were loaded with something heavy. Two vans with Kowloon and Canton Bank livery had also gone inside, and both had yet to reappear. And then there was the uniformed inspector in his Toyota. Something was clearly wrong, but Coleman couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was. If he called it in, he’d have to explain how he came to be sitting outside the depository and that would mean telling them about Chung. And then it would all come out – the way he’d mixed his personal and professional life and used Special Branch to check out the rival for his girlfriend’s affections. But if he didn’t call it in and something illegal was going on then he’d have just as much explaining to do.
He keyed in the frequency for Kowloon East and spoke to their control room. He identified himself and his location and asked them to contact the Kowloon and Canton Bank to see if they were moving assets out of their depository. He was told curtly that he’d have to wait, there had been accidents in both cross-harbour tunnels and all available men were already on Hong Kong Island.
“Haven’t you got anybody you can spare?” Coleman asked.
“As soon as we have, we’ll get on to it,” a female Chinese voice answered. “The robbery at Happy Valley takes precedence.”
“The robbery’s happening?” he said. When Donaldson had told him about the triad tip, he’d only half believed him.
“The grandstand has been bombed and dozens of people have been injured. Emergency services are having trouble getting to the track, and we have to deal with dead and injured in the tunnels. And we have a major fire at a warehouse in the New Territories. That’s why your request for information on the bank has such a low priority, Inspector Coleman. I’m sorry. I’ll get back to you when we have time.”
The gate began to open and Coleman placed the mike back on the radio unit. The last Mercedes rolled out, closely followed by the Toyota. Coleman had a brief look at the driver, the grey-haired inspector, and then both vehicles turned into the main road. That only left the two vans inside, and the vehicle that had taken Chung and Fielding. The clue to what was happening, Coleman decided, lay in what was inside the Mercs, and he decided to follow the two cars. He started the Jeep and reached for the mike again, this time to run the licence plates of the Mercedes and the Toyota through vehicle registration.
Lehman could hear the screams of the crowds above the thud of the rotor blades, and as he banked the Huey to the left he saw hundreds of men and women pour into the streets like a river that had burst its banks. He heard the rattle of gunfire and jerked his head round. Carmody was firing into the sky, the brass shell cases of his M16 bouncing off the roof of the helicopter. He had a manic gleam in his eye and Lehman knew it wouldn’t take much for him to begin spraying the crowds with bullets. He turned the Huey so that Carmody was facing away from the grandstand and up into the sky where he couldn’t do any damage. He pulled harder on the collective and twisted it, taking the Huey above the grandstand so that he was looking down on it from about twenty feet. He put the helicopter into a hover and edged the cyclic forward, skimming along the surfac
e until he was close to the point where Tyler was due to appear with the money. There was a small square-shaped structure on the top, with a door in it marked “Maintenance”. He eased off on the power and flared the rotors, dropping the Huey so that its skids were just inches above the concrete.
Lewis, Carmody and Horvitz jumped out and crouched below the spinning rotor blades, their M16s at the ready. They fanned out, keeping their heads down, and moved away from the helicopter. Carmody reached for the maintenance door with his claw, and pulled its handle. It wouldn’t move and he pulled harder. He turned to look at Horvitz, and he moved over to help. Smoke began to curl up over the edges of the grandstand, like an encroaching fog.
Lehman turned to Doherty, but Doherty was busy flicking through the channels of the scanner, a worried frown on his face. Lehman clicked his mike on. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Doherty shook his head and his frown deepened.
A small hole appeared in the Plexiglas in front of Lehman’s face, and small cracks radiated out from it. He looked at it, wondering what had caused it. A second hole appeared, slightly higher and to the left. Realisation hit him like a cold shower.
He clicked his mike on. “We’re under fire!” he yelled. He kicked the pedals, left and right, swinging the tail of the Huey from side to side the way he had in Nam when flying into hot LZs, and he increased the power so that the Huey rose up.
The three men on the roof heard the increase in rotor speed and turned to see the Huey rise above them, its tail swinging erratically.
“What the fuck’s going on?” screamed Carmody, stepping back from the door.
Horvitz pounded against it with his shoulder. “Something’s wrong,” he said. He looked at the rugged diving watch on his wrist. “The colonel’s late.”
The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 53