The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (62 page)

Doherty nodded, but said nothing. His eyes were afraid.

“Are you okay?” asked Lehman.

“I’m okay,” Doherty said eventually, but he didn’t sound convinced.

“Look, Chuck, if you want you can go now. Just go. I can fly this without you; we’ll tell Tyler you took off.”

Doherty frowned as if considering Lehman’s offer, but after a few moments he shook his head. “No, I’ll stay,” he said. “Maybe you’re right, maybe it’s nothing.”

“Good man,” said Lehman. “Come on, climb down and we’ll check her out.” As he turned away from the cockpit he looked at Lewis and grimaced. Lewis rubbed his stomach and looked equally unhappy.

The men in the rubber dinghy paddled slowly towards the sea wall, taking care to disturb the surface of the water as little as possible. There were four of them in the boat, all dressed in black. In between them were four nylon bags. Engines throbbed some distance behind them as a junk made its way towards the mainland. They had paddled the boat from Tide Cove in Tolo Harbour, along the Shing Mun river channel which ran alongside the reclaimed land on which the racetrack had been built. One of the men at the bow made a waving motion with his hand and pointed, and they paddled in the direction he’d indicated. When he was close enough to the wall he jumped from the boat and scrambled silently on to the stones, his rubber soles making no sound. He lay down flat, one hand holding a nylon rope which was tied to the bow. He looped the rope around a metal post and motioned for the three others to join him. There was a line of bushes between the sea wall and the track and they regrouped in the vegetation. The throbbing of the junk’s engines faded into the distance and the only sounds were the sea slapping against the wall and night insects chirping and clicking. With only two days to go before raceday, security was tight at the Shatin stables. The horses were under constant video surveillance to ensure that no drugs were given to them, and there were guards at all the entrances and exits. The men weren’t going near the stables, but they’d been warned to take every precaution. Their target was the grandstand, directly opposite where they lay.

The leader nodded and the four men crawled slowly away from the bushes and across the grass track, taking care not to snag their bags. They waited at the barriers around the dirt track until they were satisfied that they hadn’t been observed, then dashed across. In the centre of the track were more bushes and they crawled through them to the opposite side. They were all sweating and breathing heavily. One of the men spotted a guard smoking a cigarette and he tapped the leader on the shoulder and pointed. They waited until the man had ground the butt under his heel and gone back into the building before moving across the two tracks and up to the barriers separating the grass track from the public stands.

They spread out, each moving to his prearranged position, and then they dashed up the steps to the top of the stand, bent low. When they were all in position they opened their nylon bags and took out the explosive devices inside, each wrapped in protective plastic. The timers had already been set for thirty minutes, all that was needed was to press a small black button on the clock to activate the devices. Each had been especially built by one of the triad’s explosive experts and had been designed to damage the stand structurally but not to start a major fire. Several hundred horses were stabled at the Shatin complex and the idea was to have the venue switched, not to destroy the livestock.

Each man put a device at the top of the stand, and another in the middle, then they crawled back to the bushes in the centre of the tracks. The leader had three additional devices, smaller than the ones in the stand, and he put one each at the base of the giant video screen and the tote screens before signalling to his men to return to the sea wall. They took their empty nylon bags with them, ducked through the line of bushes and slid down the sea wall to the rubber boat. They paddled quickly to put as much distance between themselves and the racetrack as they could. By the time the explosions ripped through the night air the dinghy was back in Tolo Harbour and the men were climbing into a high-powered speedboat.

William Fielding swirled his malt whisky around the crystal tumbler and savoured its peaty bouquet. Charles Devlin was sitting on one of the grey leather sofas while Fielding stayed seated at his desk. Next to Devlin was an overweight, balding man in his late thirties, Alex Perman, the bank’s top public relations executive, who was nursing a gin and tonic. Fielding sipped his whisky, a frown on his forehead. The three men were in the middle of a brain-storming session, trying to come up with ways of strengthening the bank’s share price in a falling market. As the share price continued to decline it was becoming increasingly harder for Devlin even to find overseas bankers willing to talk with him, never mind begin negotiations. If the downward spiral continued, the market value would be so low that they would become a full takeover target. There were already rumours in the stock market that one of the Chinese trading hongs was planning to put together a consortium to mount a raid on the bank’s shares. The
Hong Kong Economic Journal
, one of the colony’s most prestigious Chinese newspapers, had run the rumour three times now, and Fielding knew that where that paper was concerned, there was no smoke without fire.

They’d been talking for the best part of an hour but had little in the way of a concrete strategy. Fielding was privately thinking that Perman wasn’t up to the job. When the bank had been doing well, Perman’s shortcomings hadn’t been obvious, but now that they were in a slump it was all too clear that they needed someone with more experience in handling the media. If they could turn around the financial analysts and journalists they might be able to generate an air of confidence that would see them through the next few months. So far the only suggestion that Perman had made was that they bring in an outside firm of public relations consultants. Devlin had squashed it immediately, quite rightly pointing out that it would be perceived as a panic measure and do more harm than good. This dirty linen was going to have to be washed in private.

Devlin had suggested that they use the Hong Kong rumour mill themselves and plant a story in one or more of the Chinese newspapers that a definite suitor had emerged. The English press often followed up stories in their Chinese counterparts and so did the wire services based in Hong Kong. Assuming the story appeared to be true, it would spread around the world. That, Devlin said, might give them a breathing space, and attract other would-be investors. Fielding had considered the idea seriously, but decided that it could also backfire if a real suitor didn’t appear.

“If these stories of a Chinese takeover are true, we might have to consider looking for a white knight,” said Devlin.

“I want a full partnership,” said Fielding sharply, “I don’t want us to become a subsidiary of another bank, even if it’s on a friendly basis. I haven’t been with this bank for thirty years only to see it taken over. And I don’t think you want that either, Charlie.”

“I want to stay independent as much as you do, William. But if it ever comes to a choice between being taken over by an English clearer and being allowed to run our affairs, or being taken over by the Chinese, I know which I’d choose.”

Fielding nodded. “You’re right of course, but God willing it won’t come to that. I don’t want to end this meeting on a sour note, but we seem to be going around in circles. Alex, I’d like you to prepare me a full report on the PR ramifications of the problems we’ve got at the moment. And any suggestions you have.” Perman looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Charlie, you’re going to have to put your thinking cap on again. I know we’re turned down overtures from the Australian banks in the past, but maybe we should be reconsidering.” Devlin pulled a face, but nodded none the less. “I’d like to see both reports by next Wednesday, and I’ll call a full board meeting on the following Friday. I’ll speak to our brokers beforehand and see if they can come up with some ideas. We pay them enough, for God’s sake.”

Fielding stood up and walked round his desk, his hands in his pockets. Devlin had never seen him looking so dejected, and wondered if perhaps the chairman was having trouble at home. He opened the office door and held it wide for them as they left.

Fielding’s secretary, Faith, slipped inside as Devlin and Perman left. “Don’t Bedford’s been outside for fifteen minutes,” she said.

“I know, I know,” said Fielding, going back behind his desk. Faith picked up the empty glasses from the black wooden coffee table and took them over to the drinks cabinet where she put them on a lacquered circular tray. “The meeting with Charlie and Alex ran on, I’m afraid,” said Fielding. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing Bedford. He was head of Personnel and for the past three years he’d had to cope with a flood of resignations, half from Hong Kong Chinese emigrating, the rest from workers being poached by other banks. They’d tried increasing salaries, by twenty-five per cent last year, but, as all the other banks did the same, the defections had continued. Almost all the bank’s computer operators had resigned over the last twelve months, and most of them had gone to Australia. As quickly as the bank trained them they were off. It was a never-ending cycle, and the closer they got to 1997, the faster the pace. Bedford never had any good news for Fielding. They’d already lowered the entrance qualifications to the point where the youngsters taking deposits from customers could barely speak English. Standards were falling all round, as they were in almost all the colony’s service industries. Most of the hotels were running at staffing levels almost twenty per cent below the early nineties and everyone knew that the police were massively understaffed.

“I’ll tell him to come in,” said Faith, carrying the tray to the door. “Oh, one more thing, you heard about the fire at Shatin?”

“The racetrack? Yes, it was all over the papers. It was lucky no one was hurt. My trainer was on the phone at six to let me know that my horses were okay. There was some panic in the stables, a few horses hurt themselves kicking against their stalls, but none was badly injured. Hellish lucky. Has anyone claimed responsibility?”

“No,” said Faith. “There was talk on the radio that it was just the latest in a long run of anti-British protests and there could be more. They’ve just announced that Sunday’s meeting is being switched to Happy Valley. Do you want me to tell all your guests? And shall I have the catering arrangements changed?”

“Of course,” said Fielding. “You’re quite right. I tell you what, if the race is going to be on the island, I might as well have some of them around for drinks first. Invite Charlie and Diane, and Phyllis and Jonathan Kelley. Maybe another two couples who live on the Peak, you know who’s best. Say drinks about two hours before the first race. And can you arrange for a car and driver to take Anne and me to the track? Unless Hong Kong’s finest have finally managed to find my car.”

“No news yet, I’m sorry, William.”

“The best police force money can buy,” said Fielding. “Where are they when you need them?”

“Oh, William,” said Faith briskly, heading for the door. “It’ll turn up eventually.” She held the tray with one hand and opened the door with the other. Don Bedford was sitting in her outer office, a thick file on his knees and a look of despair on his face.

Chung drove his Porsche to Kwai Chung, the huge container terminals that handled the bulk of Hong Kong’s imports and exports on his left. Huge mobile cranes straddled the containers and moved them around like robots playing some surreal game of checkers. He had arranged to meet Michael Wong in an underground parking garage which his triad controlled. Like most of Hong Kong’s criminal organisations, Wong’s triad had moved into many legitimate business operations including parking, delivery services, video rentals and property, though the bulk of its income still came from drugs, prostitution and extortion. Wong had shut down the parking garage and was using it to modify and store the stolen cars.

The sign above the garage said “Closed Until Further Notice” in Chinese and English and there was a surly young man sitting in the attendant’s booth cleaning his nails with a penknife. The man glared at Chung when he pulled up and pointed to the sign with his knife. Chung wound the window down and in Cantonese told him he was there to see Wong, the Dragon Head. The man nodded and pressed a button on the console in his booth. The metal grille at the entrance rattled up and Chung drove down a sloping ramp into the car park. Two big Chinese heavies with leather jackets were lounging next to a concrete pillar and they straightened up when they saw Chung in the Porsche. One of them put his hand inside his jacket and held it there, and both looked at Chung with hard eyes. The grille slowly closed behind him.

The ramp turned to the right and Chung braked because he couldn’t see what was ahead of him. As the ramp straightened up it opened out into a parking area about the size of a football field, with square concrete pillars every few yards and the parking spaces marked by white lines. There were ten large Mercedes cars at the far end of the parking area, gleaming under the overhead fluorescent lights. Eight were lined up against a wall, one was on a ramp, its wheels off while men in overalls worked on it underneath. Another was on the ground and all of its windows were out. Two men were fitting a black wind-shield into the gaping hole at the front. To the left were two security vans bearing the logos of the Kowloon and Canton Bank.

Chung parked the Porsche twenty feet from where the mechanics were working under the ramp. As he climbed out he saw that one corner of the parking area, well away from where the cars were being worked on, had been converted into a makeshift lecture theatre, with a dozen folding chairs facing a big bulletin board. A large-scale map of Kowloon and the New Territories had been pinned to the board. Almost all the chairs were occupied, but Chung couldn’t see any faces because all the men had their backs to him. He closed the car door and a few heads turned to get a look at him.