The Solitary Man (21 page)

The Ukrainian nodded again. He knew. Last time he had visited the warlord, he had had to sit through his rendition of 'Achy Breaky Heart'. Outside, he could hear the wooden crates being stacked up.

'AK-47s?' asked Zhou.

'All brand new,' said the Ukrainian. The servant retreated to the far end of the room and stood there stock still, his head bowed, like a marionette waiting for a puppeteer to bring him to life. 'I have Ml6s now,' said Zhou, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose with a perfectly manicured finger.

'So I saw.'

'They are good weapons, M16s.'

The Ukrainian shrugged carelessly. 'Talk to me again in six months,' he said. 'After the jungle has got to them.'

Zhou lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and exhaled before speaking. He held the cigarette between the thumb and first finger of his right hand, delicately, as if he feared that it might THE SOLITARY MAN 163 break. 'My men know how to take care of their weapons,' he said.

'I didn't mean to imply otherwise. But M16s don't compare to the AK-47 in terms of reliability, not in the jungle. They'll jam.' He grinned. 'Trust me, they'll jam. Why do you think so many of the American Special Forces used Kalashnikovs in Vietnam? They couldn't wait to ditch their Ml6s.'

Zhou flicked ash into a huge crystal ashtray at his elbow. 'You might be right,' he said coldly. 'How many did you bring?'

'One hundred and twenty. With one hundred thousand rounds of ammunition.'

'I need more,' said Zhou.

'More guns? Or bullets?'

'Both.'

'I'll see what I can do. I've brought fragmentation grenades. Eight dozen. And anti-personnel mines, Czech made. Plastic so they can't be detected.'

Zhou nodded and pursed his lips. 'Mines are good,' he said. 'And your price is as agreed?'

'As agreed,' said the Ukrainian. 'And I'll take it in heroin. But first, I have something else. A surprise.'

He got to his feet and went over to the door. The Chinese mercenary was standing by the wooden boxes. The Ukrainian pointed to one of the crates and the mercenary yelled at two soldiers in camouflage uniform, who carried the crate up the steps and into the building.

Zhou stood up and watched as the Ukrainian used a screwdriver to prise open the box. The warlord whistled softly as the Ukrainian removed the lid and pulled away the polystyrene packing material.

The Ukrainian sat cross-legged on the floor. 'Made in the Soviet Union when it was a union,' he said. 'How many?' asked Zhou.

'Four.'

'And you can show me and my men how to use them?'

'Of course. But you just point and pull the trigger. The missile does the rest. It goes straight for a heat source. Providing it's aimed at a helicopter or a plane, that's where it'll go.'

'Range?'

'Ten kilometres. Just over six miles.'

Zhou knelt down beside the Grail SA-7 portable ground-to-air missile launcher and stroked it as if it were his only son. 'How much?' he whispered.

The Ukrainian rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed. 'Expensive,' he said. 'But you can afford it.'

The warlord's head jerked around and the dark lenses stared at the Ukrainian, his lips set in a tight line. For a moment the Ukrainian feared that he'd gone too far, but then the lips curled back into a cruel smile and Zhou began to laugh. He slapped the Ukrainian on the back, hard, as his laughter echoed around the building.

THE WROUGHT-IRON GATES to the kennels were open but Jennifer Leigh told the taxi driver to wait outside. He protested in broken English and told her that he wanted to get back to the airport, but Jennifer hadn't seen any other taxis in the vicinity and she didn't want to be stranded. 'Keep the meter running,' she said. 'I'll pay for the waiting time.'

'Huh?' he grunted.

Jennifer pointed at the meter. 'Meter,' she said. 'I'll pay. Okay?'

The driver looked as if he wanted to argue but Jennifer didn't give him the opportunity. She slammed the door and walked through the open gates, past a large wooden sign with the name of the kennels and underneath, in block capital letters: 'Warren Hastings, Prop.'

Jennifer had changed into a two-piece cream suit at the airport and left her suitcase at the left-luggage counter. In her handbag was a small tape recorder with enough tape for half an hour. She looked at her wristwatch and noted the time. She didn't expect it would take longer than thirty minutes, but she could always say she needed to use the bathroom before the machine was due to click off. Her high heels crunched as she walked along the gravel THE SOLITARY MAN 165 path towards the two-storey house with its white-washed walls and red-tiled roof. From behind the house she could hear excited barks and yelps and she headed towards the noise.

There were two kennel buildings, each with adjacent runs. In one of the enclosures a young Chinese girl with a ponytail was putting down bowls of food.

Jennifer went over to the wire fence. 'Excuse me, are you Chau-ling?' she asked.

The kennel maid straightened up. An exuberant Boxer jumped up and splattered her T-shirt with its muddy paws and the girl pushed it away. 'No, she's in the office,' said the girl.

Jennifer looked in the direction the girl was pointing. Linking the two kennel buildings, like the centre bar of the letter H, was a brick building with large windows. Through the windows Jennifer could make out a couple of desks and a noticeboard studded with coloured pins.

'Thanks,' said Jennifer, but the girl had already gone.

Jennifer walked over to the office and knocked.

'Yes. Hi. Come in.' It was the voice on the phone.

Jennifer smiled, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. 'Hi. My name's Jennifer Leigh,' she said.

Chau-ling was chewing the end of a pen. 'You don't know anything about provident fund contributions, do you?' she asked, brushing a strand of long black hair from her face.

'I'm afraid not,' said Jennifer. 'I'm a journalist, not an accountant.'

'Well, our accountant's in Macau playing the roulette tables and these have to be filled in by the end of the week.' She put the pen down. 'Anyway, that's my problem. How can I help you? She stood up and Jennifer noticed with a twinge of envy how trim the girl's figure was. Early twenties, Jennifer reckoned, maybe twenty-four, but with the skin tone of a teenager and the cheekbones of a supermodel. Her hair was a glossy black that Jennifer had never seen outside of a shampoo commercial, and even the faded Harvard sweatshirt and baggy blue jeans she was wearing didn't detract from her prettiness.

'I'm a reporter,' said Jennifer. 'I'm doing a story on Warren, and the trouble he's in.'

A worried frown crossed Chau-ling's face. 'Did you call earlier today?' she asked.

'No,' Jennifer lied smoothly.

'Your voice sounds familiar, that's all.'

Jennifer shrugged carelessly. 'I've come straight from the airport. I spoke to the lawyer you hired. He suggested I speak to you.' The lie tripped easily off Jennifer's tongue. It wasn't the first untruth she'd told in pursuit of a story, and she was sure it wouldn't be the last.

'Khun Kriengsak? He gave you my name?'

'He agrees with me that publicity might help.' Another lie. This one came as easily as the others.

Chau-ling looked at Jennifer thoughtfully, then nodded decisively. 'We have to do something, that's for sure. Do you want a coffee?'

'A coffee would be great, thanks.'

'Let's go through to the house. I want to put some distance between me and these damn forms.'

She led Jennifer out of the office and over to the house. A back door led into a modern, well-equipped kitchen. Chau-ling waved at a table by the window. 'We can sit here,' she said. Jennifer sat down as Chau-ling busied herself with a coffee filter. 'Who do you work for?' Chau-ling asked. 'One of the local papers?'

'The Daily Telegraph.'' Jennifer took a quick look at her watch. Twenty-five minutes to go before the tape ran out. She put her handbag on the table.

'In London?'

'That's right.'

'And they're interested in the story?'

'You sound surprised. Warren is British.'

'But he's been in Hong Kong for almost seven years. Milk?'

'Please. No sugar. The fact he's British makes it a story for the Telegraph. Besides, there's a lot of interest in heroin and the drugs trade at the moment. There's a big drugs problem back in the UK.'

Chau-ling put a mug of steaming coffee down in front of Jennifer and sat down opposite her. She stirred two large spoonfuls of sugar into her own mug. Jennifer smiled. Chau-ling obviously wasn't a THE SOLITARY MAN 167 girl who needed to worry about her weight. Close up, Jennifer could see that there were bags under the girl's eyes as if she hadn't slept much. Jennifer wondered how close Chau-ling had been to Warren Hastings.

'Warren's not married, is he?' Jennifer asked.

Chau-ling shook her head.

'Not divorced?'

Another shake of the head. 'Why do you ask?'

'Well, a single man in his thirties, you know. Most of them are married or divorced. Or something.'

'Something?' A smile flashed across Chau-ling's face. 'Oh no, he's not gay.'

'Is that from personal experience?' Jennifer put the question lightly, and smiled encouragingly, hoping to give the impression that it was a chat between friends and not an interview. That was why Jennifer was relying on the hidden tape recorder and not using a notebook; only when the story appeared in print would Chau-ling realise that everything she said was on the record.

Chau-ling blushed. 'What do you mean?' she asked.

'Well, he's a good-looking guy, and you're . . .'

'We were never boyfriend-girlfriend, if that's what you're getting at,' said Chau-ling, but Jennifer felt that the denial came a little too quickly.

'I'm sorry, I just assumed that . . . you know . . . because you hired the lawyer and everything . . .'

'He's a friend, and right now he needs all the friends he can get.'

Jennifer nodded sympathetically. 'What about family? Where do his parents live?

'They're both dead.'

'Brothers or sisters?'

Chau-ling shook her head. 'He never mentioned any.'

'What about his birthday? Did he get any cards from relatives? An aunt or uncle back in England? Someone I could talk to.'

The girl shook her head again. Her jet-black hair swung freely, rippling like silk. 'Warren was funny about birthdays,' she said. 'It was usually me who had to remind him. I arranged a surprise party for him two years ago here at the kennels. He didn't even 168 STEPHEN LEATHER know what it was for until we showed him the cake. He said his family had never really celebrated birthdays.'

'Do you know where he's from? Originally?'

Chau-ling wrapped her hands around her mug. 'Manchester, I think.' She frowned. 'Actually, I'm not sure. He never said. I think I just got the impression that he was from the north of England. Why is that important?'

'Because if he's got a strong UK connection, say a relative or something, we can go to the local MP. Remember the two girls that got long sentences a few years back? They were pardoned after the Prime Minister intervened. It all helps. Now what about before he moved to Hong Kong? What did he do back in England?'

Chau-ling tilted her head and gave Jennifer a long look. 'Why are you asking me all this?' she said. 'Couldn't you ask Warren himself?'

Jennifer smiled and gave a helpless shrug. 'I wish it was as easy as that,' she said. 'The Thais are being difficult about access. I was at the Press conference after he was arrested, but they didn't give me a chance to ask for personal details. Like, for instance, did he have a kennels back in the UK?'

Chau-ling continued to look at Jennifer for a few seconds, then sat back in her chair. 'I don't know. He didn't talk about England much. But he sure knows a lot about dogs.'

'Does he breed them?'

Chau-ling grinned. 'Dobermanns,' she said. 'They're the love of his life. Sometimes I think he likes them more than people.'

'So tell me, do you think he did it?' Jennifer asked.

Chau-ling's jaw tightened. 'Absolutely not. Absolutely one hundred per cent not. He's always been anti-drugs. He won't even take aspirin when he gets a headache. And he doesn't need the money. I've been through the books, the kennels are doing just fine.'

'No vices? Gambling? Stuff like that?'

'He goes to the racetrack occasionally, but he's not a big gambler, no. Swimming and walking are about his only regular hobbies.'

Jennifer glanced down at her wristwatch. Twenty minutes of tape left. More than enough. 'So if you believe he's innocent, what do you think happened?'

Chau-ling sighed. 'I don't know, I really don't know. At first, I thought there'd been a terrible mistake, you know? That maybe he'd picked up the wrong bag at the airport. But then he refused even to talk to Khun Kriengsak. That just didn't make any sense.'

'Why was he in Bangkok?'

'Yes, that's something else that doesn't seem right. It happened all of a sudden, and he didn't even say why he was going.' She leaned forward. 'He only had one bag, a holdall, but he said he'd be away for a week, maybe longer. It wasn't a holiday, he'd have given me more notice if it was.'

'A business meeting, maybe?'

'That wouldn't take a week. He'd talked about setting up a kennels in Thailand, but it was just talk, there was nothing concrete. Not as far as I know, anyway. And that wouldn't take a week, would it?'

'What about enemies? What about someone who wanted to get Warren into trouble?'

Chau-ling frowned and chewed the inside of her lip. She shook her head emphatically. 'No. Everyone liked him. He didn't go out of his way to make friends, but he didn't make enemies, either. He has about four real friends, and that's it. He's always kept himself very much to himself. He's not an easy man to get close to.' Chau-ling's eyes went suddenly distant, and then she abruptly shook herself. 'No. No enemies.'

'Have you spoken to him at all? Since he was arrested?'

Chau-ling sighed despondently. 'I tried telephoning, but it wasn't any use. I'm thinking of flying over, but I don't know what to do about the kennels. Warren left me in charge, and I don't want to let him down. Do you think it would help? Do you think I should go?'