The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (68 page)

“I am well, Mr Fielding.” The man looked down at an appointments book on his desk. “We were not expecting you, were we?”

“No, but I wish to show my friends here around the depository.”

“I shall have to check with Mr Ballantine,” said Lee. “It is the rules, you understand?”

“Of course, Mr Lee. You would not be doing your job if you did anything less. We shall sit over here.”

Fielding took the two men over to one of the sofas and sat down, straightening the creases on his trousers. Chung sat on his right, Wong on his left.

Lee consulted a bank phone directory and dialled a number. After a minute or two he called over to Mr Fielding. “Please come to the phone, Mr Fielding,” he said.

Wong spoke hurriedly to Chung. “He says to have the call put through to the phone on the table,” said Chung.

Fielding told Lee to transfer the call and he picked up the receiver when it buzzed. “William, is that you?”

“Good afternoon, George. Sorry about this, but I had a sudden urge to visit the depository.”

“I thought you’d be at the races,” said Ballantine.

“I’ll be going later,” said Fielding. “I have Anthony Chung with me, the man you were good enough to show around for me, but he has a partner with him and they’d both like a quick look around. Does that cause you any problems?”

“Of course not,” said Ballantine. “But you know the vaults are sealed until Monday?”

“I’ve explained that, but they’d still like a look. They have a shipment of antiques arriving tomorrow.”

“That’s fine by me, William. Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.” There was a pause. “Are you sure everything is okay?”

Fielding held his breath. It would be so easy to drop a hint that he was in trouble; George Ballantine was no fool, but his first reaction would be to call in the police, and Fielding could not risk the lives of his wife and daughter. Could not and would not. “A head cold, George,” he said. “I feel terrible, but business is business.”

“I know what you mean,” laughed Ballantine. “Go to bed with a hot toddy, that always works for me. Transfer me back to Lee and I’ll put him in the picture.”

Fielding asked Lee what his extension was and put the call back to him. Lee spoke to Ballantine and then he summoned the elevator for the men. He watched as the doors hissed shut on them.

“There is something he should know,” Fielding said to Chung. “Tell him the vaults have time locks, and there’s no way they can be opened until Monday morning.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Chung. He spoke to Wong, and Wong replied in a few curt syllables. “He says he knows,” Chung whispered.

The lift doors opened and the three men walked along the corridor to the control room. They were admitted through the two security doors, the locks clicking open as they approached, showing that they were being monitored every step of the way by the closed circuit cameras. When they reached the glass door of the control room, Fielding saw three uniformed men waiting for them. The oldest of the three, a man called Woo who Fielding knew had been with the bank for several decades, opened the door for the group. He was sweating, Fielding noticed, even though the control room was air-conditioned.

“Mr Lee said you were on your way up, Mr Fielding,” Woo stammered. He looked over Fielding’s shoulder at Chung and Wong. He stepped to the side and let the three men in. “Is something wrong?”

“No, Mr Woo. We’re just here to look around,” said Fielding.

Woo closed the door and turned to face the three men. His mouth fell open as Wong pulled the gun from inside his jacket.

“All of you, put your hands on your heads!” Wong barked in Cantonese. The three men did as they were told. “Stand up against the wall, and face it,” commanded Wong. The men shuffled round. Fielding stood with his arms at his side, not sure what to do. He looked at Chung and as he did Wong slammed the pistol into his temple, knocking him cold. Fielding slumped to the floor, his head banging against a console as he fell backwards.

“Fuck your mother, you could have killed him!” cursed Chung, kneeling down and feeling for a pulse in Fielding’s neck. Chung sighed with relief when he felt a strong, steady heartbeat. Despite Fielding’s laboured breathing and the blood dripping down his temple, he was in no danger.

“Up against the wall!” Wong ordered, covering Chung with the gun. Chung backed away and stood next to the three uniformed guards. He put his hands on his head. “You three, turn round,” said Wong. The three guards shuffled round. All were sweating and wide-eyed.

“I want to show you that I am to be taken seriously,” Wong said in quiet Cantonese. “I want to show you what will happen if you do not do exactly as I say.” He smiled tightly, pointed the gun at Mr Woo’s chest, and fired twice. The explosions echoed around the soundproof control room, deafening them all. Two red blossoms appeared on Woo’s pale blue shirt, dark at the centre, pale at the edges. His hands clawed slowly down his chest, his mouth working soundlessly; his eyelids fluttered and he slid backwards down the wall leaving a bloody smudge on the white paint-work. The two surviving guards stared at their dead colleague, then looked fearfully at Wong. He smiled and pointed the gun at the space between them. “Do exactly as I say, or you will suffer the same fate.” The men nodded frantically.

Wong waved his gun at the television monitors. “Which of these covers the delivery entrance?” he asked.

One of the men pointed to a black and white screen and Wong went over to it, keeping a wary eye on his captives. He could see the Mercedes outside.

“Open the door and let the car in,” he said. The man who’d pointed at the screen stepped to a console and pressed a red button. Seconds later Wong saw the Mercedes drive in. “And now lower the gate,” Wong ordered. “Then get back to the wall and put your hands back on your head.” The men did as they were told. “Now, where are the keys to the vaults? Both vaults.”

One of the guards shook his head. “The vaults have time locks. They won’t open until tomorrow.”

“I’ll worry about that,” said Wong. “Give me the keys.”

The guard who had opened the gate, who Wong decided was clearly the more co-operative of the two, went over to a steel box mounted on the wall and took out two key-rings. He placed them on the console near Wong and went back to the wall and put his hands on his head without being asked. Wong kept the gun trained on the men while he waited for the next car to arrive. In less than five minutes a second Mercedes appeared on the screen, this one with black windows. “Open the gate again,” he ordered. The second car was admitted.

Wong scanned the monitors and saw the one which covered the delivery area. He saw five Red Poles climb out of the car and head for the exit. The camera in the elevator showed them entering and pressing the button for the control room floor, and he watched as they moved along the corridor. “Open the security doors,” Wong ordered, and his instructions were obeyed. Through the glass door he saw the five men come around the corner, guns in hand. He opened the door and let them in.

One of them immediately began trying Fielding up, roughly binding his arms and legs and stuffing a gag in his mouth. Another forced one of the guards to strip off his uniform, while a third tied the other guard’s hands behind him.

“Tie him, too,” Wong ordered, pointing his gun at Chung.

When the guard was down to his socks and underpants, he was tied up too, while one of the Red Poles took off his own leather jacket and jeans and changed into the uniform. When he was ready he stood in front of Wong who nodded his approval. “Go down and replace the man on reception,” said Wong. “Try not to kill him. Bind him and gag him and bring him up to the control room.” Another Red Pole had been designated to go down with him, and they left the control room together. Wong explained to one of the Red Poles which monitor covered the delivery gate outside and which was the interior view, and how to operate the gate. Wong kept his gun on Chung, another Red Pole covered the two guards and together they left the control room and went down the corridor to the elevator.

Lehman looked at his watch. “Time to go,” he said. Doherty nodded and climbed up into the co-pilot’s station. Mr Tsao stood by the workbench, looking at the photographs of the racetrack and the maps. Lewis and Horvitz put their M16s in the back of the Huey and went over to the main sliding door. Together they pushed it back, allowing the bright sunshine to stream in. Lehman put on a pair of sunglasses and slid his flight helmet on. Doherty did the same.

“You got the frequencies?” Lehman asked.

“Sure,” said Doherty. He reached behind his seat and showed Lehman a black clipboard. On it were written a list of frequencies for Kai Tak Airport and various police stations they could expect to fly over en route. Doherty programmed them into the scanner. Carmody put his M16 on one of the seats and hauled himself into the back. He sat in the side seat, the one normally used by the door-gunner, and he rested the rifle on his thighs. He gave a thumbs up to Lehman, showing that he was ready.

Horvitz and Lewis jogged back to the Huey, the door fully open. The door was almost as tall as the warehouse and Lehman had already calculated that there was enough room to get the Huey in a hover and move it forward and out under its own power. Horvitz leapt into the back of the helicopter and scooped up his rifle. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose, rubbed his short beard and grinned at Carmody.

Lewis picked up the fire extinguisher and stood by the side of the Huey as Doherty opened the operator’s manual and put it on his lap.

Lehman clicked the radio trigger switch. “Let’s do it,” he said.

Doherty nodded and began reading his checklist out loud. They ran through all the checks and Lehman pressed the starter trigger. The electric starter motor whined and the turbine whistled like a banshee. Lehman kept his eye on the exhaust-gas temperature gauge as the rotors whirled above his head. Tsao turned his back on the maps and watched the helicopter.

Lehman checked that all the gauges were in the green and motioned to Lewis to climb into the back of the Huey. He waited until Lewis was seated and had his rifle in his hands before clicking his radio mike on. “Everything okay?” he asked Doherty.

“Let’s do it,” Doherty replied.

Lehman pulled on the collective and eased the cyclic forward. The skids grated along the concrete floor and Lehman increased the pressure on the collective. The turbine roared and the rotors speeded up. Lehman allowed the Huey’s nose to rise almost a foot before compensating. He pressed his left foot down to stop the helicopter’s natural tendency to spin clockwise and pushed the cyclic so that the Huey crept forward. It inched out of the warehouse like a family car leaving a suburban garage.

Once the whirling rotor was clear of the door Lehman increased power and felt the Huey soar upwards. The ground flashed beneath them, then they were over the perimeter fence and banking away from the wooded hill that overlooked the compound. Lehman clicked his radio mike on. “I didn’t hear any tapping,” he said to Doherty. “You?”

“No, me neither,” answered his co-pilot. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

Lehman kept the Huey less than a hundred feet from the ground and pointed its nose south, towards Hong Kong Island and the racetrack.

Neil Coleman picked at his teeth with his thumbnail and watched the metal gate shudder upwards to admit a Mercedes 560SEL with black windows. It was the fourth he’d seen in the last half hour, and he still had no idea what was going on. He’d arrived at the depository just in time to see Fielding and Chung walk into the front of the building, and a few minutes later their car had driven into the side entrance. It had remained inside, but four more Mercedes cars had arrived, and three had left. Coleman had resisted radioing for reinforcements because he wasn’t sure yet what he’d tell headquarters, or how he’d explain his own presence outside the depository. None of the registration numbers matched numbers of stolen cars he was searching for, yet the fact that they all had black windows suggested they belonged to the same people. He wondered if perhaps the bank was secretly moving its assets out of the depository and had chosen to use cars rather than armoured vans. It seemed unlikely in the extreme, but he couldn’t think of any other explanation for Fielding’s presence. There was another reason for not calling in his observations, and that was that he remembered what Donaldson had said about the police preparing for a robbery at the racetrack. They wouldn’t appreciate being called out on a wild-goose chase. He’d have to be one hundred per cent certain that something was amiss before calling it in. He tapped on his steering wheel and waited.

When the dust clouds had settled and the throbbing of the Huey had receded into the distance, Mr Tsao closed the main door to the warehouse. It took all his strength and he was sweating by the time he’d finished. He poured himself a glass of water at the sink and then went into his bedroom to pack his holdall. He checked that he had left nothing in the room, and folded his blankets neatly on the camp bed before leaving. On the way through the warehouse he stopped in front of the maps and photographs. He placed his holdall on the workbench and stared at the wall. He heard a scuffling sound behind him and he turned around, but slowly as if he knew what he’d find. Tyler stood in the centre of the warehouse in his police inspector’s uniform, the peak of his cap down low over his nose, his back locked straight as if he were on parade. In his left hand he had a white plastic carrier bag.