The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (65 page)

“Bart, what the hell’s going on?” asked Lehman.

Lewis finished and squatted back on his heels, holding his breath for a full ten seconds before exhaling deeply. He stood up and put the lighter and used foil on his camp bed.

“Bart? What’s all this about?” pressed Lehman. He closed the door.

Lewis muttered something incoherent, and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead.

“What?”

“Chasing the dragon,” repeated Lewis.

“What the hell is chasing the dragon?” asked Lehman.

“It eases the pain,” said Lewis.

Lehman went over to the bed and picked up the blackened foil. He held it to his nose and sniffed it. “Heroin?” he said.

“Opium,” said Lewis.

“What’s the difference?” Lehman asked, and Lewis shrugged. He began to pull on his overalls. “Where did you get this crap from?”

“Mr Tsao gave it to me,” said Lewis, “and it’s not crap, Dan. It’s a terrific painkiller. It’s the only thing that kills the pain, Dan, the only thing.”

“It’s bad, huh?”

Lewis held his arms out to the side. “Look at me, Dan. I’ve lost about twenty pounds over the past two weeks. I can’t keep any food down, but that doesn’t matter because I’ve no appetite anyway.” He put a hand over his stomach. “I can feel the cancer now. There’s a lump about the size of an orange in here, hard and smooth. It wasn’t there when I was in Vietnam, I’m certain.”

“Shit, Bart, I’m sorry,” said Lehman, his voice unsteady.

“So you can see that the dope isn’t going to do me any harm,” said Lewis, his eyes intense. “Don’t tell anyone, Dan.”

“If Tyler finds out, he’ll hit the roof,” said Lehman.

“If he finds out, he won’t let me go,” said Lewis. “And if he doesn’t let me go, I could lose the money.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bart. You’ve done everything he asked of you. You’ll get your money.”

Lewis screwed up his face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Maybe, but I’m not so sure I trust him, not after what Chuck told us. I want to be in at the kill, and I want to follow it through. Dan, in ten hours all this will be over. I can last ten hours. I’ve been controlling the dose like Mr Tsao told me, just so it’s on the threshold of hurting. I’m not drowsy or anything.”

“I know,” said Lehman. He would have noticed over the past few days if Lewis had appeared drugged, and while he had spotted the weight loss he hadn’t seen any signs that Lewis wasn’t fully competent.

Lewis sat down on his bed and took a pen and small notebook from underneath it. He scribbled, the pen dwarfed by his big, square hands. “I’m giving you the name and phone number of my ex-wife; if anything goes wrong and I don’t make it, I want you to make sure my son gets my share.” He pulled the sheet out of the notebook and held it out to Lehman.

“Come on, Bart, you’ll make it,” said Lehman. He reluctantly took the sheet of paper, careful not to get it wet. He was still dripping from the shower.

“Yeah, but if I don’t I want you to get the money to my son and let him know it’s from his father. And the orphanage in Saigon, remember?”

“I remember.”

“Give them some too. You decide how much, half maybe, see what they need. I just want to know that I didn’t die without doing something to make amends. Okay?”

“I understand, Bart,” said Lehman, feeling uncomfortable about discussing his friend’s death.

Lewis smiled. “Okay, thanks. Now get the hell out of my bedroom.”

Lehman headed to the door.

“Say, what did you want?” said Lewis. “Why did you come into my room in the first place?”

“The shower,” said Lehman. “I was just telling you that I’d finished in the shower.”

“Thanks,” grinned Lewis. “I did all that a couple of hours ago. I couldn’t sleep. The excitement, I guess. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this fired up.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“It’s ironic, isn’t it? I’ve never been so close to death, and yet I’ve never felt so alive. I guess that’s one reason I want so badly to be in the Huey this afternoon. I miss the excitement, Dan. I really miss it. I didn’t know until I met Tyler how much I missed it.”

Lehman nodded and fingered the piece of paper Lewis had given him. Lewis’s words echoed something he’d been feeling for some time. Tyler had welded the group of disparate personalities into a team which now functioned as a well-coordinated unit. But there was more, Lehman knew. They cared about each other, in the same way that bonds had been forged in the heat of war, bonds that at the time Lehman had thought would never be broken. Lehman wondered what it would be like when the job was over, when the vets had the money and all had to go their separate ways.

“What’s wrong?” asked Lewis.

Lehman shook his head. “Just thinking,” he said.

“You looked furious.”

Lehman grinned. “Yeah, everyone says that,” he said. “It’s my eyebrows. I was just thinking about what we’ll do when all this is over.”

“You’ll go back to the States?”

Lehman nodded. “Hopefully, if I can persuade some not very nice guys not to blow my head off. Anyway, I’m going to get dressed. I’ll see you out at the Huey.”

“It’s going to work, Dan,” said Lewis. “It’s really going to work.” His eyes blazed with enthusiasm.

Anne Fielding studied her reflection in the full-length mirror. The blue Ralph Lauren was perfect, but she couldn’t decide whether to wear simple pearls or the sapphire necklace that William had given her for Christmas five years earlier. She held up the pearls, then the necklace, then the pearls again. She settled for the pearls and put them on.

They nestled comfortably around her neck and she stroked them as she looked at the dress in the mirror. The dress had a simple collar and was cut respectably low at the front, high enough as befitted the wife of a bank chairman, low enough to attract admiring glances. It was a delicate balance, but one she enjoyed experimenting with. She slipped her high heels on and checked her legs in the mirror. The dress ended slightly below her knees, and it swung as she moved. She ran her hands down her slim hips and smiled at herself in the mirror as she remembered her last meeting with Anthony Chung. He’d done things to her she’d only dreamed about before, taken her to a level of passion she hadn’t believed possible. And what struck her most was that the second time she’d gone to bed with him there had been no guilt afterwards, none at all. When he’d asked her to take off her wedding ring she’d resisted at first, but he’d been right. With the rings off her finger she had been truly naked with him, and she’d no longer been a wife or a mother, she’d been a lover, his lover, and there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for him. She had become more confident with him on the second occasion, and more willing to experiment. She didn’t know why Chung had such an effect on her, but she felt a desire to do things with him that she’d never dream of doing with William. It was partly because she felt safe with him, and partly because there was no feeling of embarrassment. With William she always had the feeling that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with her body, that he didn’t know how to give her pleasure and was too embarrassed to ask. Anthony inspired her. That was the word, inspired. With him there was nothing she wouldn’t try. He’d seemed more relaxed the second time, less rigid in the way he made love to her. He’d taken his time, too, stripping her slowly and kissing her all over until she’d been screaming for him to go inside her.

She didn’t want to hurt William, but neither did she want to deprive herself of the pleasure Anthony offered. She’d earned it, she’d raised a child, she’d been a dutiful wife and mother, she’d given William the best years of her life, and she deserved this one transgression. Anthony had sworn that he’d never tell anyone, and she believed him. She wasn’t like Phyllis Kelley, she wasn’t about to embark on a string of affairs, she just wanted to experiment with the sexuality Anthony had shown her, to find out exactly what she was capable of as a woman. It wouldn’t last, she knew that, eventually he would move on, but it would leave her with memories that she could look back on in years to come, when Debbie had left and William was old and she was sitting in a rocking chair. It would give her something to remember, and she would always be grateful to Anthony. Always.

“You look like the cat that got the cream,” said a voice. She turned to see William coming out of the bathroom. Her cheeks reddened and suddenly she felt guilt wash over her.

“I’m looking forward to this afternoon,” she said. “Do you like the dress?”

“It’s fine,” he said.

He was already combing his hair in the mirror and didn’t even turn to look at her. The guilt evaporated and she felt angry at his indifference. That was one of the things she loved about Anthony. He always appreciated what she was wearing and commented on it. William didn’t give a damn; his only comments came when the credit-card statements dropped through the letter-box.

“And the necklace, does that look okay?” she asked.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

“Well I’m not wearing it, I’m wearing the pearls,” she said frostily, and left the bedroom before he could turn round.

Debbie was down in the lounge, supervising the maids as they prepared the drinks table and the buffet, which was a combination of Thai appetisers and Western finger food. Debbie was wearing a Kenzo dress, buttoned all the way up the front and made from a print of the heads of wild cats: tigers, lions, and pumas. It was striking, but didn’t do much for her daughter’s figure.

“Love the dress,” said Anne, kissing Debbie on the cheek. “Did Anthony say he’d come?” Anne already knew he’d accepted Debbie’s invitation: they’d discussed it afterwards as they’d lain naked together on his bed.

“Yes, Mum. He’s bringing the Ferrari. Is it okay if we drive it to the track?”

“Your father will be disappointed, I think he wanted you with us.”

“Oh, Mum, please,” said Debbie, both hands on her mother’s arm. “Please.”

“Okay, go on then,” sighed Anne. “But don’t tell your father I said it was okay.”

Anne looked at her watch. “The first guests will be here soon,” she said. “Tell Marie to start bringing the champagne in. I could do with a glass myself.”

Coleman saw a dark green Daimler turn into the driveway of the Fielding house, and a few minutes later a Mercedes roadster arrived. Well-dressed middle-aged couples got out and were admitted to the house. Coleman tapped the steering wheel and craned his neck around to look out of the rear window of the Jeep. There was still no sign of Chung, but Coleman had a gut instinct that he was coming. He could feel it with the same sort of certainty he had when interrogating a suspect he knew to be guilty. It was his policeman’s sixth sense, and he trusted it completely. Chung was out to steal his girlfriend and he was going to the races with her. Chung was taking his place, and he was damn sure he was going to stop him. He rubbed his hand along his chin, feeling the stubble growing there. He lifted his arm and smelt his armpit, wincing at the pungent aroma of stale sweat. He figured that it would be smarter not to confront Debbie until he’d showered and changed.

He heard a deep, growling sound and knew without turning that it was the Ferrari. He settled back in the driver’s seat and waited. The Ferrari drove through the gate and stopped in front of the house. The door opened and Chung climbed out. He was wearing a dark blue suit and he stretched as if he’d just woken up. He bent down and checked his hair in the car mirror.

“I’m going to have you, Chung,” hissed Coleman. “I’m going to fucking have you.”

Chung pressed the doorbell and after a second or two he was admitted. Coleman sat bolt upright, his spine rigid with tension. His hands gripped the steering wheel and a small vein was pulsing in his forehead. He wanted to rip Chung’s head from his body, he wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp, he wanted to drive his precious Ferrari backwards and forwards over him until every bone in his body was broken.

His vindictive thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of two Toyota Corollas, one white, one red. There were four men in each of the cars, all Chinese and not one dressed as if he were going to the races as a guest of the Kowloon and Canton Bank. They looked to Coleman like triad Red Poles, burly men with bad haircuts and hard eyes, the sort of men who carried hatchets and sharp knives inside their jackets. They both cruised up the driveway and stopped either side of Chung’s Ferrari. Coleman frowned. They didn’t look like tradesmen, or guests, and he couldn’t work out what they were doing there. The car doors opened as one, and the men got out, looking around like tourists. The occupants of the second car walked down the side of the house as if they were going to the garden, while the four men in the first car, the white one, went up to the front door. One of them pressed the doorbell. The door opened and Coleman caught a glimpse of a Filipina maid in a white uniform before the men went inside, out of sight. Coleman’s frown deepened and he scratched his chin.

Phil Donaldson stuck his hands deep into his pockets and surveyed the towering grandstand in front of him. He was standing by the barriers at the edge of the grass track with a uniformed superintendent, Paul Penycate, who was talking into a radio mike mounted on his shoulder. The temperature was in the upper eighties and there were damp patches under Donaldson’s armpits. A sudden gust of wind made the hair covering his bald patch flap up like a banner and he pressed it down with his left hand.