The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (55 page)

“Hey, my lips are sealed. I just don’t like thinking of you in pain, that’s all.”

They arranged to meet outside the restaurant. Lehman had to wait five minutes for Lewis to return, and he had a small paper bag in his hand.

“He sold me a selection of painkillers, and gave me the addresses of a couple of doctors,” said Lewis. They went back to the Jeep. On the way Lewis uncapped one of the bottles and chewed on a couple of white tablets. Lehman said nothing.

Tyler still hadn’t put in an appearance by the time they got back with their bags of burgers and fries. “All right!” cheered Carmody when he saw what they’d brought. Lehman and Lewis shared out the food and while they ate Lehman unpacked his scanner, screwed in the antenna and slotted in the batteries. Lehman offered Lewis a pack of French fries but he shook his head and said no. Lehman shrugged and put the scanner down on the bench next to the radio from the Huey that Lewis had been working on. Carmody watched, munching a Big Mac as Lehman switched it on. He spent a few minutes programming in some of the frequencies, the Emergency Units for the four areas of Hong Kong, the Traffic and Fire Service frequencies, and the Marine Police’s harbour frequency. The scanner raced up and down the airwaves looking for a transmission and then a torrent of Chinese crackled through the speaker. Lehman pulled a face and pressed a button to send the scanner searching again. It locked on to another Cantonese channel. Then another. And another. Lehman tried for ten full minutes but he couldn’t get anything other than Cantonese.

“Useful, man. Really useful,” said Lewis. “You think maybe I should have tried it out in the shop first, right?”

Tyler drove to Sai Kung and to the beach where he’d arranged to meet Michael Wong. He was five minutes early, but he could see that Wong and his bodyguards had already arrived. On the beach he could see a middle-aged man in tartan trousers, golfing shoes and an expensive dark blue short-sleeved shirt swinging a golf club. He was wearing a black golfing glove on one hand, a large gold watch, and gold-rimmed sunglasses. Crouched down in front of him was a man in a brown suit holding a plastic carrier bag. The man dipped his hand into the bag and came out with a golf ball which he placed on a plastic tee.

The golfer eyed up the ball, shifted his feet from side to side, swung back the club and sent the ball curving out to sea. The man in the suit took another ball and placed it on the tee and shuffled back as it, too, was walloped out over the waves, some ten feet or so to the left of the first.

Tyler got out of his car and when he closed the door two well-built Chinese bodyguards looked over at him. The golfer didn’t appear to notice his arrival and continued to hit balls seaward. Tyler started to walk towards him and wasn’t in the least surprised when the bodyguards moved to intercept him.

“I’m here to see Michael Wong,” he said. One of the guards spoke to his companion in rapid Cantonese and he nodded back. “My name is Joel Tyler.” He wasn’t sure if the men spoke English but the one who had spoken turned away and walked over to the golfer. He waited until another ball had been whacked into the waves then whispered into his ear. The golfer turned, saw Tyler, and waved his golf club in greeting.

“Mr Tyler!” he called. “Good to see you again.”

Tyler wondered whether the man really had been unaware of his arrival, or if he was just playing some sort of power game. He hoped it wasn’t the latter because he and Michael Wong were going to be working closely together and it was important that they trusted each other. Game-playing would just get in the way. Wong walked over, smiling and swinging his golf club under his arm and holding it there like a sergeant-major’s swagger stick. He held out his other arm and shook Tyler’s hand fiercely.

“Everything is well?” he asked the American.

“Everything is fine,” said Tyler.

“The Smith & Wesson is good, yes?”

“It’s an excellent weapon,” agreed Tyler.

“And Mr Tsao. How is Mr Tsao doing?”

“He is a real asset,” said Tyler.

“A trustworthy man,” said Wong. “You play golf?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“My handicap is fourteen now,” said Wong.

“You have a good swing,” said Tyler.

“You think so? I am trying to improve it. That’s why I come here each day, to improve.”

“It’s working,” said Tyler.

The two men walked together along the seashore, Tyler shading his eyes from the bright sunshine.

“Everything is going according to plan?” asked Wong.

“The helicopter? Sure, we’re on schedule. No problems. What about your end?”

“My men are in place. I have a good feeling about this, Mr Tyler. A very good feeling.”

“Me too,” smiled Tyler. “How are you getting on with the weapons I asked for?”

“The M16s will be here shortly. They are being delivered from Singapore. I should be able to deliver them within two days. Is that satisfactory?”

“That’ll be fine,” said Tyler. “Will you deliver them? I’d like the men to meet you.”

Wong looked across at the American. “To what end?” he asked.

“It’ll make them feel more relaxed to meet the man who’s helping them to commit the robbery of the century,” said Tyler.

Wong began to laugh. He stopped walking and threw back his head and gave full vent to his deep-throated laughter.

Neil Coleman took a file from his in-tray and opened it with a sigh. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “What is it with Mercs?” he muttered to himself.

“Something wrong?” asked Hui.

Coleman looked up. “Another sodding Mercedes has been stolen. That’s ten over the past week. I can’t understand it.”

“It is a popular car,” said Hui.

“I know that,” snapped Coleman. “I meant that they’re making up a higher percentage of stolen cars than this time last year.”

“Ah,” said Hui, nodding thoughtfully. Coleman waited for him to comment further but Hui simply turned back to his desk.

“Great,” muttered Coleman. “Thanks for your input, pal.” He leant back in his chair and looked at the teeming crowds down below. He was sick to the back teeth of Hong Kong: the people, the heat, the noise. When he’d got up that morning he’d discovered three cockroaches inside his fridge. He’d been infested with the things for the past three months. He hated the insects and had put roach traps under his bed and behind the fridge, but they seemed to have got wise to them. The only way to get rid of them was to spray but he didn’t have the money to bring in exterminators and that meant speaking to his landlady, an elusive Chinese woman who lived on one of the outlying islands. He’d left message after message on her answering machine but she hadn’t called back yet. He made a mental note to tell the bank not to pay next month’s rent if she didn’t get in touch.

His telephone rang and he picked it up, hoping that it was his landlady finally returning his call. It wasn’t, it was a call from the manager of one of the colony’s Mercedes suppliers, a Mr Leung. He was very apologetic for bothering the police, but thought they ought to know that they had been selling a surprisingly larger number of parts for Mercedes cars.

“What would those parts be?” Coleman asked as he doodled on the notepad on his desk. He couldn’t understand why Leung had called. The squad was interested only in stolen vehicles, not retailing.

“Tinted windows,” said Leung.

“Tinted windows?” repeated Coleman, frowning.

“Yes, tinted windows. You know, with dark glass,” said Leung patiently.

“Yes, I know what tinted glass is,” said Coleman, sitting up straight in his chair. “How many windscreens have you sold?”

“Not just windscreens,” said Leung. “Complete sets. Windscreen, side windows, rear windows. Everything. For three cars.”

Coleman’s interest waned. “Three isn’t a very large number, Mr Leung,” he said.

“No, no, you not understand,” protested Leung. “Three sets from my shop only. I call round other dealers. All have sold tinted windows in the past two months. Twelve sets in all.”

“Twelve?” said Coleman. “Is that unusual? How many would you normally sell?”

“In one year, perhaps one set. Tinted windows not very popular in Hong Kong. People think only gangsters drive cars with black windows.”

“You mean really black, not just tinted to block some of the sun?”

“Completely black, so no one can see through,” said Leung. “They make the car appear very sinister.”

“I see,” said Coleman. “Look, Mr Leung, were all the sets of glass supplied to the same customer?”

“No, I had thought of that. They were all to individual customers, different addresses. Also, the orders were placed at different times. We had to order from Germany each time.”

“Strange,” mused Coleman.

“As you say, strange. I do not know what to make of it.”

“Me neither, Mr Leung. But I promise I will look into it. Would you do me a favour, would you please fax me a list of the customers who have requested the parts?”

“So you can check if they own Mercedes cars?” asked Mr Leung.

“Exactly,” said Coleman. He gave the man the office fax number and took down Mr Leung’s phone number before thanking him for the information and hanging up. He sat back in his chair and tapped the eraser at the end of his pencil against his front teeth. Why in God’s name would twelve different people suddenly decide to install black glass in their Mercedes cars? And was it connected to the rash of missing Mercs?

Lewis and Mr Tsao were kneeling either side of the turbine and peering at its innards. “Is there anything I can do to help you guys?” asked Lehman.

Lewis looked up and shook his head. “Once we’ve got this sorted out we’re going to need another pair of hands to help get it in place, till then we can handle it,” he said.

“I thought I’d go to the races at Shatin, get the feeling of the track there.”

“No problem with me,” said Lewis. “Better check with the colonel, though.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Lehman. Lehman knocked gently on the door to Tyler’s room.

Tyler opened it with the portable phone in his hand. “Hiya, Dan, how’s things?” he said.

“Fine, well on schedule,” said Lehman. “I was thinking of going to the races. Is that okay with you?”

Tyler nodded. “I don’t see why not. Take any of the guys who want to go with you, they deserve a break.”

“Thanks, Colonel,” said Lehman. As he walked down the corridor to his own room Lehman realised that it was the first time he’d called Tyler by his rank. It had slipped out naturally, and Tyler had accepted it without comment.

Lehman changed into jeans and a blue polo shirt. There was a knock at his door and Carmody stuck his head in the room.

“Hey, Dan, you going to the races?”

“Yeah, you wanna come?”

“Sure. I’ll see you at the Jeep.”

“Okay, see if Eric wants to go.”

Five minutes later Lehman was driving the Jeep out of the compound, with Carmody next to him and Horvitz on the back seat. As soon as they reached the main road into Shatin they hit traffic, all of it heading for the races. They parked a quarter of a mile away from the track and walked among the throngs of racegoers, almost all of them Chinese and most of them reading Chinese newspapers. They filed into the public stand, which was every bit as efficient and modern as the Happy Valley complex. They bought race-cards and sat alongside a husband and wife who were eating cold chicken wings from a plastic tub, talking as they chewed.

“Hey, guys, Galloping Dragon is running today,” said Carmody.

“Yeah, I’m surprised it wasn’t shipped off to the glue factory after its last performance,” said Horvitz.

A group of four teenagers on the seats in front of them were shouting at each other and jabbing their fingers at each other’s newspapers. The stand was buzzing with good-natured arguments and laughter as the crowds anticipated the forthcoming races.

“Are you going to bet today?” Lehman asked Horvitz.

“I might give it a try,” said Horvitz, running a hand through his beard.

“I’ll go and get us some cards,” said Lehman, standing up. He threaded his way along the line of seats and walked up to the betting hall. There were queues of bettors at each of the many tellers, handing over bundles of notes and shuffling betting cards. Lehman walked along the line of betting tellers and watched them taking in the money, faces impassive.

He went over to a betting card dispenser and helped himself to a handful of cards. A figure approached him from behind and coughed quietly. “Ah, Mr Lehman. You remember me? I am Dr Chan.”

Lehman turned round to see a middle-aged Chinese man with horn-rimmed spectacles carrying a pile of newspapers, Chinese and English, and a notebook. It was the racing fan who’d helped him out on his visit to Happy Valley.

“Of course I remember, Dr Chan,” he said. He stuck out his hand to greet the man and Dr Chan transferred his stack of papers to his left arm. He fumbled and they spilled to the floor. Lehman knelt down and helped him pick them up. When they’d both straightened up they shook hands.

“You are becoming a regular,” said Dr Chan.