Thai Horse (9 page)

‘Uh-huh. Let’s see that tang.’

She reached back over the railing, retrieved the tube and handed it to him. He held it up close, studying the fish.

‘Big guy,’ he said.

‘Just look at that tail. Do we keep him?’

‘Absolutely.’

He took the tube below to the
m
ain salon, where the six other fish they had caught that m
o
rning were still circling and exploring the hundred-gallo
n
aquarium. He stood over the tank, turned a knob opening the valve in the tube, and the yellow fish swam out and immediately began staking out his territory amid the coral and sea grass in the floor of the tank.

‘Beautiful,’ she said from behind him. Her arms slithered around his waist. ‘Swimming makes me horny,’ she said, close to his ear.

Without turning he reached behind him and moved his hands under the towel and up th
e
insides of her thighs. She leaned back a trifle, giving his hands more room to move, and slid her hands under the band of his skimpy swimsuit, feeling him rise to her touch. She slipped his trunks over his hips and let them drop to the floor, freeing him.

‘And everything makes you horny,’ she said.

He turned and pulled the towel loose and, sliding his hands gently down her back and over the soft mounds of her cheeks, drew her to him.

‘You got a cold rear end,’ he growled in her ear.

‘But a warm heart.’

She stood on her toes, spreading her legs a little more, and stepped into him, her thick hair surrounding him, and wrapped her lips around one of
his
nipples and began sucking.

‘Been a while,’ his peculiar whisper-voice answered.

‘Right,’ she chuckled. ‘At least two hours.’

She leaned over and whispered in his ear, ‘Put it on automatic pilot,’ then took his hand and drew him back toward the master stateroom.

OLD
TIMES

She was a real beauty, sleek and uncommonly low in the water that looked more like a racing craft than a yacht, with her squat cockpit, the long, tri
m
bow jutting fifty feet in front of the windscreen, the four 750 hp fuel-injected engines rumbling in the stern. The long, slender profile concealed a large main salon, a master bedroom with a king-size bed, ample quarters for two other guests and a galley fit for a cordon bleu chef.

Sloan saw only the exterior, but he could not suppress a soft whistle as the boat sliced silently through the water toward him.

The hardest emotions to control,
126
had once warned Hatcher, would be love and hate. Hatcher had loved Harry Sloan as he would have loved his own brother and hated him as he would his deadliest enemy. Now, as he approached the dock and saw Sloan for the first time in seven years, he was overwhelmed with mixed emotions.

The bond between mentor and student is as hard to break as the one between father and son; 126 had told him that, and it was true.

He wanted to get even with Sloan for betraying him, and yet part of him was glad to see the son of a bitch. Rage began to grow in him as the boat neared the dock. Rage at Sloan. Rage at himself for not hating the man more than he did. The hardest thing to forgive was not the three years in Los Boxes
—
it was that Sloan had betrayed him.

What the hell was he doing here?

He turned to Ginia.

‘See the big guy standing by the slip house?’ he said.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘He’s the guy who’s looking for me.’

‘Friend or foe?’ she asked breezily.

‘Jump off as soon as we tie up, okay? We’ve got some talking to do.’

‘The old screw-and-run trick, huh?’

‘Yeah.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll call you later. Catch the bowline for me.’

‘Sure. Dinner?’

‘Maybe.’

She leaned over and kissed him. hard on the mouth. ‘Remember that, just in case you feel like playing soldier- boy with your pal.’

‘He’s no pal.’

Sloan watched Hatcher ease the big boat into its slip, watched Ginia jump on the dock and hook up the front line, then turn and blow him a kiss, watched her walk up the pier toward the setting sun, which silhouetted her long legs through a thin white cotton skirt. Sloan ambled down the pier and stood below the bridge, looking up at him.

‘Been a while, Hatch,’ Sloan sai
l
around his perpetual smile.

He looks great, Sloan thought. Tanned, filled out, got a lot more hair than I do. Hell, he’s better-looking than he ever was.

Hatcher glared back at him and said nothing.

‘Permission to come aboard, Captain?’ Sloan asked with a laugh. When Hatcher didn’t answer, Sloan clambered on board anyway.

Pushy as ever, Hatcher thought.

Sloan held his hand out toward Hatcher, who ignored it. Instead Hatcher turned abruptly and went below. Sloan stood for a moment, made a fist and New nervously into it, then decided to follow him.

He was surprised at how large the main cabin was and how elegant. The walls were paneled with bronze mirrors and teak, the designer furniture was gray and plush, an Oriental rug covered the floor. A pedestal table large enough to seat eight divided the main cabin from the forward staterooms. Sloan could not suppress another low whistle, which Hatcher ignored as he went to the bar, poured himself a glass of red wine and sat down. He didn’t offer Sloan anything, and the burly man finally sat down facing him.

‘You look great, Chris. Never better,’ he said.

What balls, Hatcher thought, although he still said nothing.

‘You’ve got a lot of funny friends,’ Sloan said. ‘None of them’ll admit they know you.’ He chuckled. Hatcher just stared at him.

‘It’s good to see you again,’ Sloan said, trying to sound sincere.

No answer. Just get on with it, Hatcher said to himself, His face clouded up, but he still didn’t speak. Sloan sighed and watched Hatcher take a sip of ‘wine. His mouth was getting dry. Hell, thought Sloan, I may as well get straight to it.

‘Here I went to all that trouble to spring you down in Madrango and you don’t even show up in Washington to thank me.’

Be grateful I didn’t kill you, Hatcher thought, but he still didn’t speak.

Sloan made a fist and held it in front of his lips, blowing gently into it. Smiling, he said slowly, ‘I’ve got to admit I was a little nervous coming down here. I figured there was as good a chance as not you’d try to put me away. And I can understand that, Hatch, I really can. But, you know, why throw all this away just to get even, right?’

Hatcher said nothing. But the yellow flecks in his green eyes danced like charged ions.

‘You know the boys in intelligence still talk about you,’ Sloan rambled on. ‘I told them you were the best in the business, I mean any job, laddie,
any
job. Nobody believed me until you vanished at that refueling stop in Miami. Nothing but the clothes on your back. No money, no ID, nothing, and you’re gone. I gotta give it to you, that was beautifully done. Three years in that place, you didn’t lose your edge.’

Hatcher said nothing.

Sloan stood up and wandered around the cabin, looking at things, checking them out, s
t
ill speaking in that smooth, oily voice of his.

‘Took me sixteen months to get a line on you. I didn’t have the outfit out shaking the bushes or anything like that, y’know, just keeping my eyes and ears open.’

You talk too much, Hatcher thought. You always talked too much.

Hatcher took another sip of wine, staring over the rim of the glass at Sloan.

‘You’ve really stirred them up,’ Sloan chattered on. ‘Know what Interpol calls you? The Bird. Shit, the best flier in the business, I always knew that. Of course, I never said anything to anybody. None of
m
y business. Anyway, I gotta hand it to you, you’re a real trend setter.’

Hatcher didn’t bite. He kept staring at Sloan. Sloan put his briefcase in his lap, unlocked it and flipped it open. From where Hatcher was sitting lie could not see inside the case, but he knew exactly how it was laid out. File folders, all neatly labeled and stacked. A comprehensive airline schedule. Sloan’s little black book, the bible that kept him in business. And in the top of the case in special pockets, two handguns, a .357 Python and a 9 mm. H&K.

Speed
loaders and
magazines in pockets between the two pieces.

Sloan would never change. If it worked for him, it stayed in. Sloan took out a newspaper clipping.

‘Listen to this, this was in
The Times
last Sunday. “The international art theft market is second only to narcotics in the world market.” According to this piece, Hatch, art thefts have doubled since 1981. There were four hundred ninety-three cases last year alone. Four thousand one hundred fifty pieces of art got lifted.’

Still no comment.

‘The Paris job was what put me on to you,’ Sloan said, his smile broadening as though he was proud of it. ‘Then when you hit that gallery in Chicago and Stenhauser was the fixer in that one, too, I put it together. The New York trick put the icing on the cake.’

Still no response. Hatcher took another sip of wine and continued to stare. He was remembering what 126 had said once about vengeance. It’s depressing, is what he said, and a waste of time. One thing Hatcher had learned to respect in Los Boxes was time.

‘That Paris job was inspired, better than the thing we did in London that time,’ Sloan went on.

He paused for a moment. Hatcher said nothing.

‘Some haul, man. That one Monet was worth over three mill. Five pieces, twelve million. I didn’t know you knew that much about rare paintings, old pal.’

No answer.

‘I guess Stenhauser tipped you on what to grab, right?’

No answer.

‘Anyway, you were right up front with that Paris job, kind of set the pace for what’s been going on. I’ll give you a hand for your style, too. I figure you’ve only done the three jobs.’

He paused and shrugged. ‘And who got hurt? The insurance companies, right?’ Sloan chuckled. He held out his hands, palms up, like a magician about to perform sleight of hand. ‘Who gives a big damn, they probably screwed a lot of little people out of twenty times what you took ‘em for.’

Still no comment. Sloan sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He was getting annoyed. ‘You’ve changed, Hatcher. You were always good for an argument
—
about anything. You used to be quite the talker.’

Hatcher stood up suddenly, took three long steps across the room and hit Sloan with a fast, hard jab straight to the corner of the jaw. The big man flew backward out of his chair, landed on his neck and rolled over against the bulkhead.

‘God damn,’ he snapped. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and looked
u
p sharply as Hatcher leaned over him.

‘I have this thing about wasting words,’ Hatcher whispered.

‘Jesus,’ Sloan cracked, ‘what happened to your voice?’

Hatcher didn’t answer. He rinsed out his wineglass, slid it into an overhead wine rack and locked it down. Then he went topside. Sloan got up slowly, massaging his jaw. He went to the refrigerator, opened it and took out a light beer. He popped the top off, took a deep drink and then held the cold can against his jaw. Then the four big engines coughed to life and the boat began to move.
S
loan rushed to the top. Hatcher was backing the 48-footer a
w
ay from the dock.

‘What the hell’re you doing?’ he demanded, but Hatcher didn’t answer. He swung the boat around in a tight arc and headed back out to sea, cruising slo
w
ly through the sound, and then as the boat broke out into the open sea he eased the throttles forward and the engines changed their voices, their basso tones keeping rhythm to the slap of the ocean as the small yacht picked up speed and began bounding from whitecap to whitecap.

Sloan caressed his jaw with the co
l
d beer can. ‘You didn’t forget how to hit,’ he said. His smile slowly returned. ‘What the hell, I guess I had it coming.’

Hatcher turned around and stood nose to nose with Sloan.

‘Is this a shakedown, Harry?’ his harsh voice asked. Sloan looked shocked. ‘C’mon!’

‘Then what’re you doing here? Don’t tell me you came to apologize, I’ll deck you again.’

‘You know me, Hatch. I, uh, tuck info away for a rainy
d
ay. I always figure sooner or later
. . .‘
He let the sentence dangle.

‘Yeah?’

‘So now is later.’

‘You set me up, you son of a bitch.’

Sloan shrugged. ‘You do what you have to do.’

‘To protect a drunken bum.’

‘Shit, it was all politics there. We were just trying to save the country is all.’

‘From what
—
rats and cockroaches?’ Hatcher rasped.

Sloan shrugged with a grin. ‘From the Commies, who else?’

‘And I happened to be expendable.’

‘The whole thing went sour,’ Sloan went on in his sincere voice. ‘You were supposed to be in the prison in Madrango. Then the country blew up before I could get back to get you. Next thing I know, they moved you to Los Boxes. So it was a bad call, I’ll give you that,’ Sloan said.

‘A bad call!’ the ruined voice whispered.

‘I brought you in when I could, laddie,’ Sloan said.

Hatcher moved the throttles forward a little more. The engines got throatier, the bow lifted a little more.

‘What happened to the little fat guy?’ Hatcher said finally.

‘Pratt? Ah, the rebels held him for a couple of months. He lost forty pounds and quit the State Department.’

‘I wonder who’s better off.’

‘He got you out, didn’t he?’

Hatcher growled between clenched teeth: ‘Our beloved ambassador, Craig, murders a woman and child with his Mercedes, I take the fall, go to Los Boxes, and two months later the government goes down the toilet and Craig is out on his ass anyway. Beautiful.’

‘Hatch, you’ve been in the business long enough to know how fast things change. What the hell, I didn’t forget you. Did I forget you?’

‘Three years?’

‘The timing wasn’t right.’

Hatcher shook his head. ‘When they passed out heart, Harry, you were in the asshole line. What the hell do you want?’ Hatcher’s voice rasped.

‘I’ve got a job to do. A job nobody can hack like you can.’

Hatcher looked astounded. ‘Fuck off,’ he snarled.

‘Listen to me
—‘

‘Our slate’s clean.’

‘I don’t quite see it that way.’

‘I don’t give a damn how you see it.’

‘I got your pal, Stenhauser, by the gonies,’ Sloan said softly but with menace. ‘I squeeze him, you’re looking to do about twenty years’ hard time.’

‘You always did dream big.’

‘Look who’s talking.’

‘I don’t dream,’ Hatcher snapped, ‘I do it.’

Smiling, Sloan leaned over and said softly, ‘Chicago, Paris, New York.
. .
I’m not dreaming, pal. Let me play it out for you. They’ll hit you one, two, three, back to back, nothing concurrent. Three major felonies, three different cities, three different courts, and France is real touchy about its art works. I figure you’ll do at least fifteen years. And they’ll take everything you’ve got. So they won’t find the kiwash you got stashed in Panama or Grand Cayman or Switzerland’
—
he smiled his most insincere smile
—
‘but they’ll get your boat and everything that shows.’ He winked.

Hatcher stared at him for a moment.