Thai Horse (31 page)

‘Then I better get out of here,’ Hatcher said.

‘Like hell,’ said Cohen. ‘You’re safe here. Fong wouldn’t dare attack my home.’

And then after a moment’s thought, he added, ‘We’ll beef up security and everything’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. Excuse me a minute.’

Hatcher got up and looked over the side of the balcony. It was thirty feet to the ground, which sloped sharply downward and was covered with vines and ferns. The top of the banyan tree, which was thirty or forty yards from the foot of the balcony, was ten feet below the balcony level. There were four heavy posts s
u
pporting the balcony Heavy spotlights were mounted on the corners of the balcony. The high wall continued down both sides of Cohen’s property until foliage blocked his view.

‘The back looks fairly secure,’ Hatcher whispered. The phone interrupted any further discussion of security.

Sing answered the call and looked up with surprise. He held his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It is for the Occhi di Sassi,’ he said. ‘A Sergeant Varney.’

Cohen’s face clouded up. ‘Son of a bitch, what now?’ He looked at Hatcher, ‘You want to take it?’ he asked.

‘Let’s find out what he’s up to,’ whispered Hatcher.

Sing handed him the phone.

‘Hatcher,’ he whispered.

‘Sergeant Varney from the Hong Kong police,’ he heard the clipped tones reply. ‘You remember me, sir?’

‘Of course.’

‘You did a nice job slipping my men this morning,’ Varney said pleasantly. ‘But I think I should warn you. Joe Lung went to your hotel room. Now he’s on the island and has several men with him.’

‘How did you find me?’ Hatcher demanded.

‘Guessed, sir,’ answered Varney. ‘I decided to take a chance that you were visiting your friend the Tsu Fi. Point is, we have a safe house near the airport. We’d like to take you out of there.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Hatcher answered.

‘We thought perhaps you would prefer to avoid a confrontation at your friend’s home. This man, Lung, is serious, Mr Hatcher.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Hatcher replied. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘We’ll slip in there in an hour and bring you out. I’ll have a backup unit with me. We have Lung under observation. I think everything will move smoothly.’

‘Call when you get to the gate,’ Hatcher said and hung up.

‘How about the man on the hill?’ Cohen asked Sing.

‘Still there.’

‘Does he suspect we’re on to him?’

‘I think not,’ said Sing.

‘How many men do you have?’ as
k
ed Hatcher.

‘Three in the front, one in the back, the three of us inside,’ Cohen answered.

‘If Varney’s in on it, they’ll set up the hit here, China. Lung and his men will probably come in behind Varney. They figure they’ll catch us by surprise.’

Hatcher had never seen Cohen this angry before. ‘They wouldn’t dare attack this house,’ Cohen said coldly, but his tone was less than convincing. Then he added, ‘If they do, there’s going to be hell to pay.’

WHITE PALMS

In a warehouse below the mountain, Joe Lung sat back from a window, watching the house on the peak through powerful infrared binoculars. It was getting dark, but he had a clear view of the balcony in. the back of Cohen’s home. Suddenly he saw Hatcher appear at the railing of the balcony for a moment, then disappear from view.

‘There he is,’ he hissed with a combination of satisfaction and hatred.

There were six other men in the room besides Lung, all dressed in black sateen pants and black shirts. All but one of them stood quietly against the
wall
of the small office with their hands folded in front of them. The one who stood aside, whose name was Wan I-low, had helped case the house, and was obviously uncomfortable. Lung looked across the room at him.

‘You have a problem with this, Wan?’ Lung asked.

‘It is a fortress,’ Wan answered. It is thirty feet from the ground to the balcony in the back—’

‘I can see that,’ Lung snapped impatiently.

‘The front wall is eight feet high with electricity across the top. There are scanners in many places in the gardens.
And
the steel gates are—’

‘I
will worry about getting us inside,’ Lung said, ‘You have anything else to cry about?’

Stung by the insult, Wan hesitated a moment. He was a tall man in his early twenties, with long, slender fingers and light skin, an athlete in excellent condition, and he was far from being a coward. ‘He is Tollie Fong’s mark,’ he said softly, staring at Lung.

Lung’s lips curled back in anger. ‘Hatcher is
my
mark. I have been waiting eight years for today. He killed four of our brothers in the triad,
my
brothers. He stole our merchandise. Do not tell me Hatcher is only
the
s
an wong’s
mark
.’

‘He killed Tollie Fong’s
father,’
Wan replied. ‘I think we should wait for him to return before
—‘

‘You do not have the insides for this, is that it?’ Lung said viciously. ‘You see this?’ He jerked up his black shirt. A long jagged scar stitched across his belly from side to side. ‘The bastard
gwai-lo
spilled my guts, but I have enough left to take him. I have a right to this kill, Wan. I am
the
s
an wong’s
Number One here. When Tollie is gone, I say what we will do and what we will not do. You understand that?’

Wan did not reply. Embarrassed, he looked at the floor.

‘I tell you we are going to hit the house and kill them

Wan looked up, startled. ‘You mean to kill the Tsu Fi.’

‘Fuck the Tsu Fi!’ Lung said, his voice rising. ‘He is
mei
gwok,
a
gwai-lo
just like Hatcher, He protects our blood enemy. I say get rid of this American Jew.’

The other men showed no emotion at all. They stood silently, inscrutably, while Lung a
n
d Wan How argued the wisdom of attacking Cohen’s home.

‘I disagree,’ said Wan. ‘We have no fight with the Tsu Fi. If we kill him, we will make many enemies.’

‘Enemies make us stronger,’ said Lung. ‘You are getting weak, man. Too much easy life. The hydrofoil back to Macao leaves every thirty minutes.’ He waved him away.

‘I have taken the oath,’ said Wan How. ‘If it is your decision to do this, I will do my part.’

Lung glared at him for several seconds, then nodded slowly. ‘Good,’ he said.

Lung turned back to the window and stared back up at the house. ‘Khan has been watching the house all day. The women are gone. There are five men besides Cohen and Hatcher. Three on the grounds in front, the
gwai-lo
and Sing inside. One man patrolling the back.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Keye?’ he said to one of the othe
r
men.

‘
Hai,’
the man answered and opened the door. Sergeant Varney entered the small office. Lung turned to him with a smile that was almost a sneer.

‘Well?’ he asked the British cop.

‘I made the call.’

‘And?’

‘I’m not sure Hatcher will come out with me,’ Varney said. ‘He is a very cautious man.’

‘Then we cannot take the risk. We will follow you inside the gates. It is the only way through the front. Four men in the front
—
I will take Keye and three others and go up the balcony at the rear.’

‘I can’t be in on the killing,’ Var
n
ey said hurriedly.

‘Of course not,’ Lung said with a shrug, still smiling.

‘And I’m going to have to put
o
n a bit of a show. The man with me isn’t part of this. I have to make it look good,’ Varney went on.

‘I hope you do not shoot too well,’ Lung said slowly, his eyes mere slits.

‘I don’t want my man hurt.’

‘Then keep him out of our way,’ Lung said sharply, his voice hissing like a snake’s, his eyes glittering. ‘If he gets out of control, he is a dead man, you understand that, English?’

‘Look, I’ll be useless to you in the future if you force me to tip my hand,’ Varney pleaded.

‘Just stay clear when it starts!’ Lung repeated sharply, and Varney knew the discussion was Dyer.

He cleared his voice and said, ‘Rig
h
t.’

‘We will be ready when you get there. Just do exactly as we discussed.’

Varney nodded, and after hesitating a moment, he left.

‘You trust the Englishman?’ Wan asked.

‘He has been on our payroll for
m
ore than a year. He cannot afford to refuse us about this.
B
esides, he is the one who spotted Hatcher in the beginning.’ He turned back to his binoculars and, without looking
t
his soldiers, added, ‘He will be a big risk after this. He has outlived his usefulness to us anyway.’

He turned back to the tall Chinese. ‘The Englishman is yours, Wan.’ He pointed to two of the henchmen who stood silently against the wall. ‘You will take these two and pick up Khan at the Gardens, follow the Englishman through the gates and hit the fron
t
of the house. Kill Varney and his partner and everyone on the grounds. My team will take out everyone inside the house. Just remember, Hatcher is a dangerous man
—
b
ut he is mine. If you must take him on, wound him only, so I may finish the job.’

ASSAULT

Cohen had sent Tiana to Fat Lady’s for the night. He sat on the bed and watched Hatcher
o
pen the Halliburton case, snap open the video camera arid remove the plastic trigger housing. He unscrewed the le ns from the telephoto lens and took out the
gun sight
. H
e
removed the short barrel from the other lens and the two magazines from the batteries.

‘That’s beautiful,’ Cohen said. ‘What is it?’ ‘Austrian Aug,’ said Hatcher as he assembled the weapon. ‘I need some ammo.’

‘No problem,’ Cohen said. He gave the order to Sing, and the big Chinese slipped out of the room and returned a minute or two later with four boxes. ‘Enough?’ Cohen asked,

Hatcher smiled, ‘Two hundred rounds oughta do it,’ he whispered.

Cohen gathered his small band in the living room, a sturdy
enough-looking bunch dressed in black pants and turtlenecks and each wearing a black cotton mask so they would be well concealed in the dark. All were armed with Mac 10 submachine guns. He spoke to them in Chinese.

‘They will probably hit us fr
o
nt and back,’ he told them. ‘Hatcher, Sing and I will s
t
ay in the house. We’ll keep the lights out in the house. We’ll draw and make them come to us. Louie, you take the roof. George, Joey Chen and Lee
—
in the garden. Sammy, you’ll be on the ground in the back. Anything to ad
d
, Christian?’

Hatcher shook his head.

Hatcher had one final thought, but it was one he hesitated to discuss with these m
en
. Joe Lung was the last of the five members of Dragon’s Breath, the men who had run dope for White Powder Mama from Thailand to Saigon, and there was a good chance he knew about the Huie-kui camp. He needed to keep Lung alive, at least long enough to try to question him. But that seemed too much to ask of Cohen’s small brigade, all of whom were putting their lives on the line for the Tsu Fi
—
and for him.

Finally he said, ‘If there’s a chance to keep Lung alive, I’d like to question him.’ Cohen locked at him with raised eyebrows. ‘But not at the risk of anyone’s life,’ Hatcher quickly added.

It had started to rain, a light drizzle with a portent of a heavier downpour to come. This was good news for Lung. It would cover sounds of the movement of the gangsters, all of whom wore black shirts and pants.

His driver parked the car on a curved street below Cohen’s house. Joe Lung and the other two assassins got out and moved quickly and silently up through the foliage to the foot of the wall that surrounded Cohen’s property. The ground here leveled off after sloping sharply away from the house for several hundred yards.

Lung guessed there would be at least one man on the ground at the rear of the house, possibly more, so he made his assault plan accordingly. He tossed a grappling hook up twice before it caught on the wall, then went up the line to the top of the wall and attached a twenty-foot-long insulated jumper to the electric wire on top of the fence, letting it dangle down. Lying flat on t
h
e wall, he slid one end of the jumper down the wire until it was taut. Then he crawled back. With the insulated Jum
p
er firmly attached, he cut the electric wire. He punched the button on his flashlight twice, then dropped over to the inside of the fence, landing in a crouch in knee-deep vines and straw grass.

Above him, through the trees, he could see the spotlights on Cohen’s balcony several hundred yards away, throwing arcs of light on the foliage below. He stayed in the crouch, his ears alert for sounds i
n
the darkness. The other two men dropped quietly beside
h
im.

The drizzle turned into a steady rai
n
.

They spread out quickly until the three mobsters formed a line from the east to the west wall of Cohen’s estate. They still had not spotted the guard on the back slope. They moved forward as silently as possible through the tangled vines and grass toward the house, keeping low, looking for a silhouette against the sp
o
tlights, each with an earphone in one ear attached to a batte
r
y-driven beeper.

It was Lung who spotted Cohen’s guard, Sammy, squatting in the cleared area at the foot of the balcony, his eyes searching the area beyond the arc of spotlights. Lung pressed his beeper button twice. The other two assassins heard the beeps and froze. It was up to Lung to take out the guard when their man signaled that the assault on the front of the house had begun. Lung was lying in the high grass perhaps thirty yards from the crouching Sammy) a black shadow with a mask over his face.

Lung raised his
rifle
, a Mannlicher loaded with a tranquilizing dart that would immediately knock the man unconscious. Better than a bu
l
let, which might only wound the guard and give hi
m
a chance to sound an alarm.

He sighted in on Sammy through the infrared scope
,
then raised it up to the balcony. The lights in the house were out. He lowered the rifle back down, aiming at Sammy’s throat, and waited for the signal from the street.

On the roof of the house, Cohen’s man watched through binoculars as a car picked up the man near the Botanical Gardens. He whispered into his walkie-talkie, ‘They have picked up the man on the hill. There appear to be three others in the car.’

In the darkened house, Hatcher swore vehemently. ‘That’s it. That son of a bitch, Varney, turned me up to Joe Lung. He’s in on it.’

Varney and his assistant, a young Oriental corporal named Henry Dow, reached the top of the mountain. Corporal Dow knew few details about the job. They were taking a man into protective custody, that was all he needed to know. The beefy young corporal had been a cop for four years and never asked questions.

Varney approached the gates of Cohen’s estate slowly through the rain. He saw the triad mobster’s car turn in behind him, its lights out. The corporal, distracted by the rain, was peering intently through the windshield and did not notice the car. As they neared the gate Varney flicked his lights, then picked up the radio phone, got the police operator and asked for a patch through to Cohen’s phone number.

‘Their play will be to follow Varney’s car through the gates while they’re open,’ Hatcher whispered.

Cohen relayed the message to the other men. He had a Smith & Wesson .357 and an old Army Colt .45 stuck in a web belt he had strapped on for the occasion. Hatcher laughed at him. ‘China,’ he said, ‘you look ridiculous.’

Cohen smiled grimly. ‘Don’t underestimate me, Occhi di Sassi,’ he said. ‘I know how to handle these things.’

‘That’s a relief to know,’ growled Hatcher. He opened the glass door to the balcony. ‘I’ll check the back.’

He eased out the back door in a crouch and crept to the railing of the balcony. Rain was coming down steadily now and the visibility was poor. Below him, he saw the guard, Sammy, crouched near one of the support posts, his Mac 10 protected by a poncho. Hatcher went back inside to get out of the rain.

Down below, crouching in the wet grass, Lung checked his watch. Varney would be making his move anytime now. Once the action started in front of the house there would be enough distraction for his men to go up the support posts, over the balcony and
hit
the house from the rear.

‘Here they come,’ Cohen’s man on the roof said into his walkie-talkie.

In the car behind Varney, one of the assassins saw Varney’s lights flick. ‘Go!’ he said into his walkie-talkie.

Behind the house, Lung heard the order and squeezed off the tranquilizer, watching through the night scope as the dart smacked Sammy in the throat. He saw the Cohen guard fall back against the support post. His eyes rolled up and he dropped against the post in a sitting position. His shoulders drooped and his weapon fell to the ground.

Lung pressed the beeper twice, and the two mobsters in the rear charged rapidly through the grass and rain to the balcony support posts. Lung drew a stiletto from his sleeve, then, grabbing Sammy’s hair, pulled back his head and slit his throat.

‘This is Sergeant Varney,’ the British sergeant said into his phone when he heard Cohen answer his call. ‘Open the gates, will you?’ He slowed to a stop.

‘Here we go,’ said Cohen, pressing the gate switch.