The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (57 page)

Archie Kwan was one of the most successful trainers in the colony with thirty-six horses under his control and more than his fair share of winners. He was forty-three years old, had a wife and two teenage mistresses, a Rolls-Royce and Canadian citizenship. He was the Hong Kong dream personified, thought Fielding as he walked up behind the man.

“William!” said Kwan, extending a hand. He referred to all his owners by their first name, no matter who they were. He trained horses for some of the richest and most powerful Chinese businessmen in the colony and Fielding was one of just a few gweilos he had agreed to take on. “What brings you out so early?”

“I thought I’d watch trackwork for a while,” said Fielding.

“Sure,” said Kwan. He nodded at the horse in the pool. “He didn’t do us any favours at Shatin,” he said. “That tendon is still worrying him.”

“He’ll be okay, though?”

Kwan sucked air through his teeth. “He’ll be fine by next season, but before … I don’t know, William. Maybe, maybe not.”

“I’d really like him to do well in the last race of the season,” said Fielding.

“Me too, but there’s only so much we can do. If you like, I can rest him until the final meeting.”

“That might be best,” agreed Fielding. A win would be nice. It was about time something went his way, he thought to himself. Nothing had gone well for him for some time. He’d drawn a blank with every merger opportunity he’d pursued, his car was still missing, and Anne had been decidedly frosty over the past few days. He knew that he hadn’t been spending enough time with his wife but she didn’t seem to appreciate just what a difficult time the bank was going through. That was one of the reasons he’d made the early morning drive to Shatin – he was finding it harder to sleep and he knew that his tossing and turning annoyed Anne.

“So, I’ll hold back Galloping Dragon until the last meeting,” said Kwan. “Maybe I’ll see you in the winner’s enclosure.”

“That would be a treat,” said Fielding. He looked at his watch. “I’ll go and watch the trackwork,” he said. “Keep up the good work, Archie.”

Kwan gave him a thumbs-up and a grin. Fielding walked outside, his head downcast and his hands in his pocket. He went and stood by the edge of the track and leaned on the barrier. Three chestnut geldings cantered around, their Chinese jockeys talking to each other and grinning. Fielding watched the horses as they worked up a sweat, but his thoughts were confined to the problems facing the Kowloon and Canton Bank.

Lehman could see that the Huey was going to be finished well on time. Under Lewis’s supervision the vets had stripped out the helicopter’s wiring, checked every inch, and refitted it. Lewis had installed the scanner they bought from the Tsim Sha Tsui tourist shop after discovering that several of the channels did use English on occasions. It seemed that when British officers were talking on air they would use their own language, but Chinese speaking to Chinese would always use Cantonese. They had also used the scanner to pick up conversations between airline pilots and Kai Tak control tower – all air traffic communication was in English.

The turbine and gearboxes had been given a clean bill of health and installed after Lewis had fitted the skids. The rotors, main and rear, were still lying on the floor, and Lehman wasn’t fully happy with the response of the hydraulics, but he doubted that they faced any major hurdles. The bird would fly.

Mr Tsao and Lewis had turned in, tired from their labours, and Carmody was in the shower. Tyler had taken the Toyota and said that he wouldn’t be back until after midnight. Lehman walked slowly round the Huey, touching the warm metal with his hand. He was eager to be at the controls, to feel the surge of power as the rotors bit into the air and the Huey surged forward. He had flown helicopters in California to keep his licence up to date but he had not flown a Huey since he returned from Vietnam and he was looking forward to it. Tyler had promised them that they would test the turbine within the week, though he would not allow them to take the slick outside the warehouse.

Lehman went to the kitchen area and opened the fridge. There were several cans of beer inside, American and local. He took out a Budweiser, closed the door, and stood for a while in front of a free-standing fan, allowing the cool air to blow across his face as he popped the can and drank.

He felt edgy as if sleep would be a long time coming and he decided to take a walk outside. When he reached the door he saw Horvitz sitting with his back to the wire fence around the compound, staring up at the night sky. He was wearing his dark glasses as usual, Lehman noticed. He went back to the refrigerator and took out another can of Budweiser for Horvitz who nodded his thanks and put the can by his side, unopened.

“It was a hot one today,” said Lehman, sipping his beer and looking up at the stars.

“It was that,” said Horvitz.

“What do you reckon it is now? Seventy degrees?”

Horvitz shook his head. “Seventy-three,” he said confidently.

“How can you be so sure?” Lehman asked.

“Hear the crickets?” said Horvitz. Lehman had the feeling that Horvitz had his eyes closed behind the sunglasses.

The insects were chirping furiously. “Yeah?” said Lehman.

“Count the number of chirps in fifteen seconds. Add forty to that figure. That gives you the temperature.”

“You’re kidding!” said Lehman.

“Try it.”

Lehman looked at his watch and counted the cricket chirps as his second hand moved from twelve to three. Thirty-three. “Okay, so there are thirty-three chirps. Thirty-three plus forty is seventy-three. But how can I check what the temperature is?”

“Trust me, Dan. It works. It’s an old country trick.”

Lehman shook his head in bewilderment, not sure if Horvitz was pulling his leg or not. Lehman drank in silence. An airliner boomed overhead, heading towards China. After a while Horvitz opened his Budweiser and drank deeply, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a fishing float as he swallowed.

“What are you doing here, Dan?” asked Horvitz.

“Just wanted a drink,” said Lehman.

“No, I mean what are you doing in Hong Kong?”

“The heist, you mean? I need the money. I need a lot of money, quickly, or bad things are going to happen to me. It’s complicated.”

Horvitz nodded and drank again. “We’re a mixed bunch, aren’t we? You, me, Carmody and Lewis.”

“And Doherty. Let’s not forget the mad monk.”

“Yeah. And Doherty. Do you ever wonder why the colonel chose us?”

Lehman shrugged. He rolled the Budweiser can between the palms of his hands. “He wanted me because I flew Hueys and because I still fly helicopters. Bart Lewis is a first-class mechanic and crew chief. Carmody I’m not sure about. He’s the sort of guy who’s prepared to take a risk.”

“You mean he’s got nothing to lose?”

“Yeah, maybe that’s what I mean. Maybe none of us have anything to lose.”

“You know that the colonel fixed it for Carmody to go on the trip to Vietnam?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, he told me when he’d had too much to drink one night. Met the colonel in a bar in Cleveland. Larry and his Purple Heart. Shot in the line of duty.” His voice was bitter.

Lehman turned to look at him. “Are you saying he wasn’t wounded? What about his arm?”

“You might ask yourself how many doorgunners got to be shot in the hand,” he said quietly. “Not many. Not unless they were self-inflicted.”

“You think so?” said Lehman.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Is that what you were thinking – you were wondering why Tyler would choose Carmody?”

Horvitz drained his can and squeezed it with his right hand. The thin metal tube crumpled like paper. “I wonder why he chose Carmody, sure. But I’m even more curious to know why he wanted me.”

“Why did you go back to Vietnam?”

“A guy from the VA came to see me, said I could go back for free. All expenses paid. He pretty much talked me into it. I was happy enough in the woods.”

“The woods?”

“Yeah, I was living rough just over the Canadian border. There are quite a few vets there. People leave us alone, we hunt, fish, take care of ourselves.”

“And they found you there?”

“The guy said they were looking for war heroes. Said that with my medals the Vets Association would pay for the whole shooting match.”

“You’ve got medals?”

“Have I got medals?” said Horvitz, throwing the crushed can backwards over the fence. “Yeah, Dan, I’ve got medals. I’ve got a Silver Star, a Purple Heart with Oak Leaf Clusters, three Bronze Stars for valour, two of them with Oak Leaf Clusters, the Army Commendation Medal for valour with Oak Leaf Clusters. I’ve got enough oak leaves for a whole fucking tree, but I still got spat on when I got home. I still got called Baby Killer.”

He pushed himself up off the ground and wiped his hands on his overalls. “I guess that’s why I agreed to work with the colonel. It gives me a chance to get even.”

He smiled thinly and turned his back on Lehman. Lehman watched him walk back to the warehouse. He sipped his Budweiser and counted the cricket-chirping. There were consistently thirty-three chirps every fifteen seconds.

Lehman sat for half an hour on his own, then went back inside. He walked around the Huey again and sat for a while in the pilot’s station, fingering the glass fronts of the various instruments on the panel in front of him: the altimeter, the vertical speed indicator, the attitude indicator, the airspeed indicator, the heading indicator, the torque indicator, and the dials which showed the levels of fuel and the oils in the various transmissions. Lehman would have liked the opportunity to test fully all the instruments but Tyler had insisted that the first flight would be on the day of the robbery.

He pushed down on the rudder pedals and held the collective and cyclic gently. He badly wanted to fly; being in the air was almost an addiction for him and it had been several months since he’d been at the controls of a helicopter. He yawned and closed his eyes. When he opened them he saw Tyler standing in front of him, a wry smile on his face.

“Sleep-walking, Dan?” asked Tyler.

“Couldn’t sleep,” said Lehman. He was surprised that he hadn’t heard Tyler walk across the concrete floor.

Tyler climbed into the co-pilot’s station on Lehman’s left.

“It always amazes me the way you guys keep these things in the air,” said Tyler. “All those opposing forces working against each other: the rotors trying to pull themselves off, the fuselage trying to spin the opposite way to the rotors, the tail rotor pushing it back, the whole thing trying to shake itself to pieces. And in the middle of it all, one man, using both hands and both feet and one pair of eyes.” He shook his head. “You guys have my admiration, Dan.”

Lehman looked across at Tyler. The words sounded right, but Lehman knew he was being spoken to in the same manipulative manner in which he’d addressed hundreds of others, playing to their vanities, their weaknesses.

“It’s just a matter of technique,” said Lehman. “You could train a monkey to do it eventually.” He looked sideways at Tyler. He was wearing a short-sleeved khaki safari suit that was military in appearance, epaulets on the shoulders and button-down pockets on the chest. His hair seemed shorter than when they’d first met, but he couldn’t recall exactly when Tyler had had it cut.

“Something on your mind, Dan?” asked Tyler quietly. He was scanning the instrument panel and playing with the controls, not looking directly at Lehman. He pulled the cyclic back and the duplicate moved in between Lehman’s legs.

“We’re gonna fly this to Happy Valley, right?” said Lehman. “On the last raceday of the season?”

“That’s right,” said Tyler, his voice soft and level.

Lehman turned to look at him. “So how come the last race of the season is always held at Shatin?”

Tyler looked up sharply, his eyes narrowed. His lips were two thin horizontal lines and he studied Lehman like a surgeon weighing up where to make his first incision. Lehman felt his insides tighten. Tyler’s face gradually softened, the lips opened and turned up at the edges and the eyes crinkled. “So who’ve you been talking to, Dan?”

Lehman shrugged. “Does it matter?” he said.

“It matters if it means you don’t trust me,” said Tyler. “This whole operation, from start to finish, depends on you trusting me.”

“What about you trusting us?” asked Lehman.

“Need to know,” said Tyler. “It’s on a need-to-know basis, I said that right from the start. Everything has been planned down to the last detail, but I can’t reveal it all.”

“Because you don’t trust us?”

“Because if one of you – Lewis, Horvitz, Carmody, Doherty, or you – is compromised, then the whole operation is blown. That’s too big a risk to take.” He moved the cyclic in small, tight circles. Lehman looked down at his own cyclic moving in identical circles. “You’re right, of course,” continued Tyler. “The last race is at Shatin. Normally. But I’m arranging for it to be switched to Happy Valley.”

Lehman laughed coldly. “So you carry weight with the Royal Hong Kong Jockey Club now?” he said.

“No, that’s not it,” replied Tyler. “Some friends of mine will be setting fire to the Shatin grandstand two days before the race is due to be held. They’ll have no choice but to switch venues.”