The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (44 page)

“Let me summarise the position so far. Next week the helicopter will be delivered to our factory. At about the same time the replacement turbine and gearboxes will be shipped over from the Philippines along with the other spare parts you wanted, Bart. We will have a little over three weeks to get the Huey into shape, at which point I will give you further technical details of the operation. I can tell you that it will involve us flying from the New Territories to the track here in Happy Valley, and then out to sea where there will be a ship waiting for us. Dan, you have no problem in landing at sea?”

“It’s pretty straightforward,” said Lehman. “But I’d like to get some practice in.”

Tyler shook his head. “Not possible, I’m afraid. In fact we’ll only be able to test the Huey on the ground. The first time it flies is on the day of the operation. Is that a problem?”

Lehman sniffed. “It’s not a problem, but you’re not making it easy.”

“I’d like us to be able to run through the whole thing from start to finish, but it’s just not possible. If we fly the helicopter we lose the element of surprise.”

“Understood,” said Lehman.

“Bart, I’m arranging for you to have a little extra help,” Tyler said to Lewis. “We’ll have a Chinese mechanic with us; he’ll be able to operate the lathes I’ve had installed in the factory.” He looked around all the men sitting at the table. “Bart will be in charge of the refurbishment of the helicopter and I’d like you all to assist him. There will be a great deal of work to do and you’ll all have to pitch in. Does anyone have a problem with that?” He was faced with a row of shaking heads.

Neil Coleman ordered a beer and leaned against the bar. He felt something cold and damp soak into the sleeve of his jacket and he straightened up, cursing.

“Fucking hell, CK, why don’t you ever clean the bar?”

The wizened old barman grinned at Coleman and half-heartedly wiped a cloth over the Formica surface before plonking down a bottle of Heineken so hard that the lager inside foamed and bubbled over.

“Thanks, CK,” said Coleman through tight lips. He looked around the police social club at the twenty or so expatriate officers, nodding to a few, studiously avoiding others. He saw Phil Donaldson drinking a Heineken from the bottle as he listened to one of the anti-triad officers. After a few minutes, Donaldson joined Coleman by the bar.

“Hiya, Neil, how are they hanging?” he asked.

“Straight and level,” said Coleman. “What’s new?”

“Not much. Loved the show the
Hong Kong Standard
gave the car bust. Did I miss it or weren’t you mentioned?”

Coleman scowled. “I didn’t even get a fucking invite.”

“I saw they interviewed your little spy, though.”

“Hui? Yeah. I’m starting to wonder if it’s the Commissioner he’s spying for and not the commies.”

“Could be. You said so long and farewell to Ian?” Ian Cormack was an inspector with Serious Crimes who was leaving after twelve years of service to join a private security firm in Bangkok. Coleman, Donaldson and the rest of the expat police contingent had been invited to his leaving party. There were, Donaldson noticed, no Chinese there except for CK, the surly and ageless barman.

“Not yet,” said Coleman. “I tell you, Phil, these get-togethers are getting more and more depressing.”

“They’re getting smaller and smaller, that’s for sure. It won’t be long before there’s just you and me.”

“Will you come to my leaving do?”

“Will you come to my mine?” asked Donaldson.

“Sure.”

“That’s good, because I’ll be out of here long before you.”

“Bastard!”

“There’s Ian now. Ian!” Donaldson waved his beer bottle in the air to attract Cormack’s attention. He came over, a portly man who, like Donaldson, was beginning to lose his hair. Unlike Donaldson, he made no attempt to cover his bald spot and, if anything, had his hair cut shorter to emphasise it. He shook hands with both men.

“Thanks for coming, guys,” he said. Whisky slopped over the edge of his glass and trickled on to the worn green carpet.

“Another rat deserts the sinking ship,” said Donaldson.

“It was an offer I couldn’t refuse,” said Cormack.

“I bet,” said Coleman. Everyone knew that Cormack had been looking for another job for at least twelve months, just like every other expat on the force. “I’m glad for you, Ian.” He raised the bottle and clunked it against Cormack’s glass. More whisky slopped to the floor. “If you hear of any other openings …”

“The only openings he’s going to find are in Pat Pong,” jeered Donaldson. “Between the legs of the hookers there.”

“Yeah, I’ll miss you, too,” said Cormack. “Anyway, thanks for coming, guys. I’ve got to work the room.”

“Not much of a room to work,” said Coleman.

“It’s to be expected, I suppose,” agreed Cormack, “the rate the guys are leaving. And they’re only hiring Chinese.”

“Huh!” snorted Donaldson. “They can’t get Chinese to work for the police. I heard from a girl in Personnel that they wanted to hire 2,900 constables last year and only signed up 657. They wanted 160 to make up its inspectorate intake and you know how many they found? Twenty-six! Twenty-fucking-six! They’re crazy. They block our promotion, they say they want to localise the force so that everything’ll go smoothly after 1997, and what happens? I’ll tell you what happens, every police station in the fucking colony is undermanned, they’re down to about two-thirds of their establishment level and morale is lower than it’s ever been.”

Heads began to turn as Donaldson raised his voice, and Cormack backed away. “Hey, calm down, Phil,” said Coleman.

“Yeah, there’s nothing we can do about it,” said Cormack. “Nobody cares any more. Shit, I used to be so proud of the force, I really did.”

“The best police force money can buy,” said Coleman, with a grin.

“And look at it now,” continued Donaldson, ignoring Coleman’s interruption. “At a time when Hong Kong needs a strong police force, it’s weaker than it’s ever been. Hell, do you remember when the Commissioner’s house was burgled in broad daylight?”

“Yeah, and he assigned four uniformed constables to stand guard, round the clock,” said Cormack. “That’s more than they have patrolling most of the housing estates in Hong Kong. The man has no shame.”

“Who has, these days?” said Donaldson. “It’s every man for himself. And the last one out’s a sissy. I tell you, there’s going to be blood on the streets before long. Full-scale riots, the works. You know, Hong Kong used to be one of the safest places in the world, for expats anyway. There was trouble between the triads, sure, but they kept the violence among themselves. Europeans never got mugged, tourists could walk through the streets at midnight and be one hundred per cent safe, guaranteed, and it was almost unheard of for an expat’s house to be broken into. Now look at it. That woman on Disco Bay, the New Zealander, gang raped and cut up with a machete. Her house smashed to bits. That was just mindless. The Cathay Pacific pilot who was robbed at gunpoint. They roughed him up and trashed his house as well as robbing him. Tourists are being mugged every day, cars owned by Brits are being vandalised in front of their homes, their kids are getting beaten up at school. There’s an anti-British feeling the like of which we’ve never seen before and it’s going to explode. And who’s going to contain it when it does? The army’s pulling out, the police are leaving in droves. I tell you, it’ll be the little yellow men in green uniforms, they’ll be the ones restoring law and order and they’ll do it like they did in Tiananmen Square.”

“Oh, come off it, Phil,” said Coleman. “The Chinese would never send the army in. They wouldn’t dare.”

“They wouldn’t dare?” said Donaldson. “They wouldn’t care. They own this place, remember. That’s what Thatcher confirmed when she said they could have it in 1997. They’re the landlords and we’re the tenants, and if we can’t keep the place in order they’ll do it themselves. Trust me on this. You know that new highway that cuts right through Shenzhen. Tailor-made for tanks.” Donaldson was practically shouting, and Coleman put his hand on his shoulder. Cormack moved away, embarrassed, as Coleman tried to calm him down.

The two men turned to face the bar, their folded arms resting on the Formica. Donaldson sighed. “I’ve got to get out, Neil. This place is killing me.”

“It’s killing us all,” agreed Coleman.

“Huh! At least you’ve got your heiress,” said Donaldson. “Play your cards right and she’ll bail you out, you lucky bastard.”

“I don’t think so,” said Coleman. He explained how he’d seen Debbie and Chung in the Ferrari.

“The same guy we saw in Hot Gossip?” asked Donaldson.

“Yeah.”

“The one who said he was a colleague of her dad’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit. He lied, huh?”

“Wow, you ought to be a policeman, Phil,” said Coleman.

“Don’t get bitter and twisted,” said Donaldson. “What have you found out about this guy Chung?”

“What makes you think I’ve found out anything?”

“Come on, Neil, I know you too well. I bet you’ve already run him through all the computers. You probably even know his shoe size.”

“Nine,” said Coleman, grinning. “Yeah, I found out some stuff.” He told Donaldson what his enquiries had revealed. “But I want more. I want to know what he’s up to.”

“Have you tried Special Branch?”

“Special Branch?”

“They’ve got files on most of the people who deal with China. And anyone from the mainland who comes through Hong Kong goes on their computer.”

“He’s French,” said Coleman.

“Fuck that, they’re Chinese for ever, no matter what their passports say. If he wasn’t born in China his parents were, or their parents. Or they’ll have relatives in China. Try Special Branch.”

“You know anyone who’ll let me have a look at their files? They’re a pretty secretive bunch.”

“With good reason, mate. All their informers and agents are on those files. They’re all due to be destroyed long before the Chinese move in. Some of the names in those files wouldn’t last a minute if the Chinese knew about them.”

“That’s why I was asking if you knew anyone.”

Donaldson looked over his shoulder. “Terry McNeil over there is your best bet. He’s a solid enough guy, and he owes me a favour.”

“You want to introduce me?”

“Now? Shit, mate, I’m pissed.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Tomorrow maybe?”

“Tomorrow,” agreed Donaldson. “You want another drink?” He held up his empty bottle and waggled it from side to side to attract CK’s attention.

When Lehman stepped out of the elevator the following morning, Lewis and Doherty were already in the lobby sitting on an overstuffed sofa reading the
South China Morning Post
.

“Hi, guys,” he said. “You eaten breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry,” said Lewis, putting down his paper.

“I ordered on room service,” said Doherty. “First time I ever had room service. In fact, this is the first time I’ve ever stayed in a hotel.”

Lehman looked around the lobby. “Is Eric up?”

“He went out for a walk,” said Lewis.

“In this heat? He must be crazy.”

“Said he felt caged in. Needed his space.”

They heard a car drive up to the front of the hotel and they all looked round to see Tyler at the wheel of a large white Toyota sedan. As he opened the door and climbed out Carmody arrived in a black Wrangler Jeep with the top down.

“Are we all ready, gentlemen?”

They nodded and Tyler told them to take their luggage and put it in the vehicles while he settled the bill. Horvitz returned while Lehman was putting his suitcase in the boot of the Toyota.

“We’re checking out?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Lehman. “You got your case?”

“The bell captain’s looking after it for me.” He went to retrieve his suitcase and put it on top of Lehman’s.

“We all ready?” asked Tyler, putting a sheaf of hotel computer print-out into his jacket pocket. Everyone nodded and took their places in the vehicles: Horvitz, Lewis and Lehman joining Tyler in the Toyota, Doherty and Carmody in the Jeep.

The sky was cloudless and blue and the temperature was in the high eighties. Tyler had the air-conditioning on full. He drove the car down the hill, past the racetrack and towards the tower blocks of Causeway Bay. They reached the entrance to the tunnel, the road dipped down and they drove under the fluorescent lights, the waters of the harbour above their heads. The road climbed up and they were soon outside with clear blue skies overhead. They queued at one of the toll booths and Tyler handed over the toll fee to a young man in a sweat-stained uniform with his ears plugged into a Sony Walkman. Lehman looked behind him and saw the Jeep with Carmody and Doherty. Carmody saluted and Lehman gave him a thumbs-up. Tyler drove the car through Tsim Sha Tsui, the roads between the luxury hotels and tourist shops packed with slow-moving traffic. A Singapore Airlines 747 roared overhead, its flaps down as it prepared to land.

The Toyota and the Jeep left Tsim Sha Tsui behind and headed through the countryside of the New Territories. The change in scenery was dramatic: in just a few miles they had gone from one of the most crowded cities on earth to a place of green hills and secluded valleys, small farms and villages where mangy dogs scavenged for scraps. The roads they drove on were wide and well built, as good as any they’d seen in the States. In the distance they saw more tower blocks and as they came closer it became clear that they were apartments and not offices or hotels, homes to thousands upon thousands of workers. The buildings were covered in poles on which the occupants hung their washing and they looked for all the world like thousands of ragged, multicoloured flags. Lehman wondered what sort of people would want to spend their lives living on top of each other like battery chickens, but realised they probably didn’t have a choice. He wondered too whether life would be all that different for them under a communist regime.