The Solitary Man (46 page)

'Billy, my friend,' said Zhou. 'You had a safe journey, I hope?'

'Uneventful,' said Winter. He made no move to shake hands. Instead he put his hands together and gave him a wai. Bird and Harrigan did the same. Zhou returned the gesture, Hutch stood with his arms folded. Zhou wasn't a big man; he was slightly overweight with a chubby face and soft, baby-like skin. He reminded Hutch of a boy he'd known at school, a boy who was always eating sweets and always had a note from his mother to excuse him from gym class. It was hard to believe that this was one of the most powerful warlords in the Golden Triangle.

If Zhou was offended by Hutch's reluctance to wai him, he didn't show it. He gave him a beaming smile. 'You must be Hutch. Billy has told me a lot about you.'

'Not too much, I hope.'

'That you were the only man who could get Ray out of Klong Prem. And he was right.'

'I did have an incentive,' said Hutch.

'Sit, sit,' said Zhou, waving them inside to cushions scattered around the teak floor. Zhou sat on a teak bench so that they all had to look up at him. He had a large handgun in a holster in the small of his back, an ornate weapon with carving on the barrel and strips of mother-of-pearl on the handle. An elderly servant in white jacket and black pants brought in a bottle of whisky and five glasses and they toasted each other. The servant switched on two standard lamps at either end of the room then left them alone.

'First we shall drink, then you can shower, and then we shall eat,' said Zhou. 'Then I have planned a little entertainment.'

'Entertainment?' asked Winter.

'Not girls, Billy. Not girls.' Zhou roared with laughter. 'I have never met a man with such an appetite for girls,' he said to Hutch. 'He is a terrible man.'

'Terrible,' agreed Hutch.

Zhou waved his tumbler of whisky at Winter. 'Two of my men were caught stealing from me. I have been waiting for your arrival so that I can deal with them.' He laughed again. Winter laughed too, but he gave Hutch a quick sidelong glance and Hutch could see that the laughter was forced.

'So, Hutch, do you like country music?' asked Zhou.

Hutch shrugged.

'Billy Ray Cyrus is a great favourite of mine. Do you like Billy Ray Cyrus?'

Hutch shrugged again. He couldn't think of anything to say. 'How long will we stay here?' he asked.

'A few days,' said Zhou. 'A week at most. A man is coming from Yangon with the paperwork. He will take photographs for your new passports, then he will go to Bangkok to process them.'

'What sort of passports?' asked Hutch.

'British. American. Whatever you wish.'

'It's that simple?'

'We have contacts in most embassies in Bangkok. It will not be a problem. My man will then get you the requisite visa in Yangon, and you can leave on a scheduled flight to anywhere in the world.'

'I told you it wouldn't be a problem,' said Winter. He patted Harrigan on the back. 'You'll be back in Ireland before you know it, Ray.'

Hutch got to his feet and put his untouched whisky on a side table. 'Is there a toilet I can use?' he asked.

Zhou clapped his hands and the old servant appeared. 'He will show you where it is,' said Zhou. 'It is primitive, I'm afraid.'

Hutch followed the old man down the steps and around the side of the building. They walked by a water tower from which several hosepipes ran to various parts of the compound. The latrine building was a wooden hut with a bamboo door at one end. The old man pointed to it and shuffled back to the main building.

The smell assailed Hutch's nostrils as he opened the door. The toilet was even more basic than the facilities he'd had to use in Klong Prem. There was a large hole in the ground, a pit about three feet wide and twelve feet long, over which had been placed a number of roughly hewn planks, and a tin bath filled with water.

Hutch stood on two of the planks and urinated into the pit. The smell was nauseating and Hutch held his breath. He zipped up his fly, lifted his sweatshirt and peeled the sticking plaster off his stomach. He held the transmitter in his hands for a second or two, wondering if he was doing the right thing. He didn't owe THE SOLITARY MAN 379 H Tim Carver any favours, and the DEA agent had been as ruthless as % Billy Winter in forcing Hutch to do what he wanted. But whereas Hutch and Billy had a history, he knew nothing about Carver.

I 'Better the devil I know,' Hutch said to himself. He dropped the transmitter into the hole. It floated on the brown, crusty surface, then slowly dipped sideways and disappeared into the foul-smelling mess. The surface bubbled and plopped and then went still.

Hutch washed his hands in the tin bath and then went back outside and began to walk around the compound. The sun had almost gone down and oil lamps were being lit and hung from the roofs of the huts. The electricity supplied by the generator was I confined to Zhou's building, to power his lights, fans, refrigerator I and stereo.

I At the far end of the compound was a wooden hut with a barred door. There were two men standing inside, with their hands in the air. Hutch frowned, wondering what they were doing. He walked 1 towards the bars. As he got closer he could see that their hands were chained to a rafter and that they were having to stand on tiptoe to take the weight off their arms. They looked up anxiously as Hutch approached, then seemed relieved when they saw that he Iwasn't one of their captors. Hutch realised that they must be the entertainment promised by Zhou. He shuddered as he remembered the impaled bodies at the entrance to the compound. The men * began to shout in their own language, obviously imploring him to help. He backed away. No matter what fate Zhou had in store for them, there was nothing he could do.

Zhou's stereo started up again, Billy Ray Cyrus at full volume. By the time Hutch got to the front of Zhou's building, Zhou, Winter, Harrigan and Bird were standing at the entrance. Zhou had his gun in his hand and he raised it skywards. He pulled the trigger and the shot echoed around the compound. To Hutch's amazement fifty of Zhou's men rushed forward and formed into ranks as if they were on parade, but almost immediately they began to line-dance to the record, clapping their hands and stamping their feet in time with the music. Hutch watched open mouthed. Zhou stood with his hands , on his hips, grinning at the display and nodding his appreciation.

i Despite the gathering gloom, he was still wearing his Ray-bans.

SHE WAS LYING FACE down and something was banging against her stomach. There was a strong smell, a smell she remembered from her childhood. Her pony, the pony her father had bought her for her tenth birthday. Robbie, it was called. It had died when she was fifteen and she'd cried for a month. Tsang Chau-ling opened her eyes. Her hands had been tied with rough rope and she couldn't move her legs. She had a throbbing headache. She looked to her right, past the rear of the mule they'd tied her to. Three men were walking in single file, their rifles held close to their chests, and behind them was another mule. All she could see was a vague shape slung across the mule's back but she knew it must be Tim Carver. She turned her head the other way, wincing from the pain. Ahead of her were another five men, one of them with a radio strapped to his back and a short antenna wobbling above' his head.

'Water,' she said. She repeated the request in Cantonese, louder this time. She wracked her brains for the Thai word for water but then remembered that she was in Burma and they probably wouldn't understand anyway. One of the men walked up to her. All she could see was his boots and camouflage trousers so she twisted her neck to look up at him. 'Water,' she gasped. The man smiled showing several broken teeth. He lifted his rifle and smacked the butt against the back of her head.

THE OLD MAN BEGAN clearing away the plates while Zhou poured himself a large measure of brandy and handed the bottle to Winter. Hutch sat back in his chair and looked across the table at Harrigan. The Irishman seemed as perplexed as Hutch at their surroundings. They were sitting at a long table which had been covered with a red cloth on which were three silver candelabras with burning candles. The meal they had eaten -- several varieties THE SOLITARY MAN 381 of meat curry, rice and slices of roast pig- had been served on fine china that wouldn't have been out of place in a five-star hotel; the wine was an excellent claret which they drank from crystal goblets, and the cutlery was solid silver. It was hard to believe that they were in the jungle hundreds of miles from the nearest city.

Winter passed the brandy to Hutch but he shook his head. 'Take it,' hissed Winter.

Hutch did as he was told. Even though Winter was smiling and laughing throughout the meal, Hutch could see that he was tense and taking care not to offend their host. Hutch poured brandy into his glass and then gave the bottle to Harrigan.

'So, Ray, how does it feel to be a free man?' asked Zhou.

Harrigan shrugged. He seemed to be having trouble speaking and had said only a few words throughout the meal. 'Okay. I guess.'

Zhou turned his attention to Hutch. The flickering candles were reflected in the lenses of his Ray-bans. 'So tell me, Hutch, how did you escape from Klong Prem?'

Hutch explained how he'd switched the two prisoners and how Bird and his men had attacked the coach on the drive to the courthouse. Zhou seemed fascinated by Hutch's ability to pick locks and he asked for a demonstration. He ordered a padlock to be brought to the table and asked Hutch what else he needed.

'Paperclips,' said Hutch. 'Or any piece of wire if it's thin enough.'

'I have paperclips,' said Zhou. He went over to an ornate desk in the corner of the room and returned with a handful. He stood over Hutch and watched as he picked the lock. It took Hutch thirty seconds of careful probing before he handed the open padlock to Zhou. Zhou held up the lock for everyone to see. 'Incredible,' he said. 'And you can pick any lock?'

'Most. Given enough time.'

Zhou went back to his seat. 'And how did you learn such a skill?' he asked, pouring himself another large measure of brandy.

'I was a locksmith. A long time ago.'

Zhou sniffed his brandy appreciatively, then gulped it down like a ravenous dog, draining his glass in two swallows. He licked his lips. 'And how did a locksmith end up in a British prison?'

'It's a part of my past that I don't like to think about,' said Hutch.

Winter stiffened and he flashed Hutch a warning look.

'But I'd like you to tell me anyway,' said Zhou, his voice cold and flat. He bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. 'If you would be so kind.'

Hutch stared at Zhou for several seconds, then he nodded. 'I had a partner. He let me down.'

'How?'

'We installed a security system at a stately home in Sussex, real state-of-the-art stuff. Six months later they were robbed, and whoever did it knew their way around the system. They knew where the sensors were, where the cameras were, everything. It had to have been an inside job. Then the police searched our warehouse and found a painting. My partner fingered me.'

'Fingered?' repeated Zhou.

'Blamed,' explained Hutch. 'He said I did it.'

'And they believed him?'

Hutch shrugged. 'He was very persuasive.'

'But surely they would have discovered the truth eventually?'

'Maybe. But by then it was too late.' Hutch took a deep breath. He didn't want to continue but Zhou was leaning forward, eager for details. 'They put me in a prison on remand, until the trial. Three guys attacked me in the showers. For my phonecards.' He saw Zhou frown. 'Plastic cards that allow you to make phone calls. They're a sort of currency in prison.'

'And what happened?'

'They attacked me with a knife. I defended myself. One of them died. The other two guys lied, they said I'd attacked them.'

'And the authorities believed them?'

'It was two against one. I got twenty-five years. For something I didn't do.' Winter chuckled. 'Parkhurst was full of innocent men,' he said.

'What do you mean?' asked Zhou.

'It's a saying we had. No one ever admits to being guilty in prison. Unless they're up for parole.'

'It was an accident, Billy,' said Hutch. 'He came at me with a knife. I didn't mean to kill him.'

I THE SOLITARY MAN 383 'I'm not talking about that,' said Winter. 'I'm talking about the robbery. The stately home. The robbery you always said you weren't involved in.'

'It wasn't me. It was my partner.'

Winter helped himself to another brandy. 'Let me ask you something, Hutch. Something I've always wanted to know.' He paused and sipped his brandy before continuing. 'When you escaped from Parkhurst, after everyone thought you were dead, how did you pay for your passport? Where did you get the money from to start again?' t 'I had money.'

Winter shook his head. The old servant appeared with a box of cigars and offered one to Zhou. He took one and used a silver cigar cutter to snip off the end as he listened intently to the conversation.

'But you couldn't use your bank accounts, could you? That would have proved that you were still alive. The cops would have been all over you.' The servant offered the box of cigars to Winter and he took his time selecting one. He rolled it between his fingers, then bit off the end savagely, like a cat killing a mouse. 'So where did you get the money from, old lad?'

'I forget.'

Winter screwed up his face as if he'd smelled something bad. 'I know you inside out, Hutch. I know you better than you know yourself.'

'So you keep saying. Can we change the subject?'

'You did the robbery, Hutch. We both know you did. And instead of admitting it you've been punishing yourself ever since.'

'You're full of shit.'

'Am I? Look at the new life you made for yourself. Dogs in cages. With exercise runs. A security gate. Closed-circuit television. Don't you see it, Hutch? You built your own prison. Just like I did. I bought my big house and I sit in one tiny room. You escaped and ran straight into a prison of your own making.'

'No,' said Hutch quickly. 'We're not the same.' Winter laughed dryly. The sound annoyed Hutch more than the man's words. 'Fuck you, Billy.'

They were interrupted by the sound of clapping. It was Zhou,

standing at the head of the table and applauding the two of them. 'Excellent entertainment, gentlemen,' he said. 'Excellent. But I think I can do better. Come with me, outside.'

The men got up from the table and followed Zhou to the door. Zhou shouted commands and half a dozen men ran off. They reappeared with the two prisoners whom Hutch had seen earlier. They were shaking with fright. One of them had wet himself.

'Billy, do we have to watch this?' asked Hutch.

'We do exactly what he wants,' whispered Winter.

'He's going to kill them.'

'Eventually, yes.'

Zhou marched down the steps, his riding boots clicking on the hard wood. His men grabbed the prisoners and half-dragged, half-carried them to the entrance to the compound.

Winter, Hutch, Harrigan and Bird followed apprehensively. More of Zhou's men emerged from their huts carrying blazing torches. Soon there were more than a hundred men following Zhou as he strode out of the compound.

Two wooden poles had been prepared, each more than twenty feet long and sharpened to a point at one end. The two prisoners knew what was going to happen and they began to scream for mercy. Hutch and Harrigan stayed at the back of the crowd.

Harrigan was shaking. 'What's he going to do?' he asked.

'Impale them,' said Hutch.

'Jesus Christ.'

They looked on in horror as the pointed stakes were pressed against the men's stomachs. Ropes were used to bind the men to the poles, then, when Zhou raised his arm, the poles were swung upwards. Both men screamed in pain as their own bodyweight forced them down on the spikes. Their legs kicked, but the more they wriggled the more they impaled themselves. Harrigan put his hands over his ears trying to blot out the noise.

The poles were slotted into holes in the ground and earth shovelled in. Blood dripped down the stakes as the men's cries began to fade. After a few minutes they were both still, their hands and feet pointing towards the ground.

'Are they dead?' asked Harrigan, taking his hands away from his ears.

i THE SOLITARY MAN 385 'I don't think so,' said Hutch. 'I think it's going to take a while.'

Harrigan shuddered and turned away. 'He's crazy, isn't he?'

'I'd say that was a pretty accurate assessment, Ray.'

One of Zhou's men pointed down the hillside and shouted something. A convoy of uniformed men and mules was approaching. 'Now what?' asked Winter.

The new arrivals came along the trail and up to the compound. The leader was a stocky soldier with a leather jacket and a brand-new Ml6 slung over his shoulder. He went up to Zhou and began talking earnestly to him. Zhou slapped him on the back and walked over to one of the mules. His men gathered around him.

There was something tied across the back of the mule. Hutch moved forward to get a better look. It was a body, the hands and feet tied with ropes.

'What is it?' asked Harrigan.

'Another victim, I reckon,' replied Hutch.

Zhou reached down and grabbed the hair of whoever was tied to the mule. He pulled the head up, grinning cruelly. Hutch caught his breath as he saw who it was. Chau-ling. He took a step backwards as if he'd been struck in the chest.

JAKE GREGORY TAPPED HIS fingers on the field desk. He looked at his wristwatch for the thousandth time. There was a quiet cough at the entrance to his tent. Gregory looked up. It was Peter Burden. The pilot nodded at the radio receiver on Gregory's desk.

'What's it they say, a watched pot never boils?' he said.

'That's crap. Any pot will boil eventually.' Gregory gestured at the radio. 'But I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever hear from my man in the NIO.'

The and the boys were planning a poker game. Do you wanna make up a five?'

Gregory cracked his knuckles. 'Nothing I'd like better, but I've got to stay close to this baby. Once the transmitter goes off, I've no idea how long it'll stay on.'

'Because of the battery?'

Gregory shook his head. 'Because I don't know how long it'll be before Zhou Yuanyi discovers what's happening. If he finds the transmitter . . .' He left the sentence unfinished.

'We were wondering,' said Burden. 'The guy that activates the beacon. Does he know what's going to happen when he presses the button?'

Gregory looked at the pilot with unblinking eyes. 'Enjoy your game, son.'

Burden turned and went back outside. Gregory began tapping his fingers on the desk again.

HUTCH CLOSED THE LATRINE door. An oil lamp was hanging from the rafters in the centre of the room and it cast a flickering shadow against the wooden walls as Hutch walked towards the foul-smelling pit. His mind was filled with visions of Chauling meeting the same fate as the two men Hutch had seen killed: impaled on a stake, screaming for her life. Hutch knew that he had to do something. He had to get help, and there was only one way he could do it. He had to summon the DEA's helicopters and hope that they would get to the camp in time to rescue them.

He knelt down beside the pit and stripped off his sweatshirt. He turned his head to the side as he plunged his arm into the brown, treacly mess. His stomach heaved and he tried to think of something else as he groped around in the faeces. His arm went in all the way up to his shoulder and he still hadn't touched the bottom. The smell was a hundred times worse now that he'd disturbed the surface and as he slowly withdrew his arm the liquid sucked at his flesh with a loud slurping noise. Hutch stood up. He held his arm to the side as he went over to the tin bath where he washed his arm and then stripped off the rest of his clothes.

He went back to the pit and took a deep breath before lowering himself in. It clung to him, wet and cold and lumpy, and he tried to distance himself from what he was doing because if he thought about it he knew he'd be sick. He held on to one of the planks THE SOLITARY MAN 387 and felt around with his feet, his toes squelching on the solid matter at the bottom. The smell was worse than anything he'd ever smelled before, worse than anything he'd ever had to deal with in the kennels. He'd shovelled up more than his fair share of dog shit, but this was something else; this was human waste and his mind reeled with the awfulness of it. His right foot nudged against something and he screwed his toes around it and lifted. It slipped and he tried again, pushing the metal box against the side of the pit until he got it up to knee-height, then he reached down with his hand. It was the transmitter. He stripped off the shit-smeared plaster and pressed the button as Tim Carver had demonstrated. There was no click, no buzz, no sound or flashing light to let him know that the beacon had been activated, no way of knowing if it was working or not. He tossed the transmitter on to the ground and pulled himself out of the pit, gasping for breath.

HAL AUSTIN WAS HOLDING three queens and had just thrown ten dollars into the pot when Jake Gregory rushed into the tent. Austin and his three colleagues jumped to their feet, the poker game forgotten.

'It's on,' said Gregory.

Austin smiled tightly and nodded at the others. 'Rock and roll,' he said.

Gregory handed slips of paper to Warner and Lucarelli. 'These are the co-ordinates. I'll confirm over the radio once you're airborne.'

The four men headed outside. 'Good luck,' Gregory called after them.

It was a clear night with a quarter moon and myriad stars overhead. Austin jogged towards his Apache, Warner at his shoulder. 'Okay, Roger?' said Austin.

'Fine and dandy,' replied Warner. 'Nice night for it.'

They climbed over the Apache's starboard wing and into the cockpit, Austin taking the rear seat and Warner dropping into the co-pilot/gunner position. Warner's seat was some nineteen 388 STEPHEN LEATHER inches lower than the pilot's, giving Austin an unrestricted view, though the two cockpits were separated by a transparent acrylic blast barrier. Austin shut the cockpit windows and settled into his seat between lightweight boron armour shields. He flicked on his avionics switch. Green and orange lights illuminated the Apache's instruments. He slipped on his helmet and swung the radio mike up close to his lips. 'Check, check, check,' he said.

'Loud and clear,' said Warner.

They quickly ran through their pre-flight check list, then Warner used the data entry keypad to programme the internal navigation system and enter the laser codes that would help send the laser-guided Hellfire missiles to their target. As the gunner initiated the Apache's weapons systems, Austin looked over to his right, where the main rotor blades of Burden and Lucarelli's Apache had already started to spin. Austin started his own turbines.