The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (74 page)

“Later? Where the hell are we going to go?”

“We’ll head out to one of the outlying islands, west would be the best bet. It’ll mean flying over Kowloon again, but if we keep low it won’t be a problem.”

“Think you can manage it?”

“I’ll need your help, Dan. But I think between us we can do it.” He tore off a piece of his own shirt and wrapped it around the still-bleeding wound. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Come on, let’s get this bird in the air.”

Horvitz had dragged a canvas bag out of the rear of the Toyota and was dragging it along the road. It was too heavy for him to lift with the M16. He heaved it to the cockpit and stood next to Doherty. “You’re not going to believe this, but Tyler’s car is full of gold and cash. There must be millions of dollars there. Millions. And it’s American money, not Hong Kong.”

Horvitz had pulled an aluminium box from the car and hefted it over his shoulder, bending double as he hefted it towards the Huey. He dropped it into the helicopter and went back for another. Doherty ran over to help him while Carmody leant his M16 against the skids and used both hands to push his box into the Huey. There were three boxes and the canvas bag, and when they were all loaded into the cargo area Doherty climbed back into his station and fastened his harness. He pulled on his helmet and clicked his mike switch. “You ready, Dan?”

Lehman nodded. He kept his feet on the pedals and slid his left hand around the collective, his right hand he let lie in his lap. As Doherty pulled the collective up and twisted it, Lehman mimicked his action. He pushed down on the left foot pedal, feeling Doherty do the same but too slowly, and he watched his own cyclic move forward. The Huey jumped forward as Doherty was too heavy-handed on the cyclic, but there was nothing Lehman could do, his right arm was effectively dead.

Anne Fielding’s hands had grown numb, so tight were the ropes which bound her hands behind her back, but she refused to ask the men in ski-masks to loosen her bonds. She didn’t want them touching her; it was bad enough the way they kept looking at her with undisguised lust in their eyes. The man in the yellow ski-mask had sat down on the edge of the double bed and he kept reaching over to stroke Debbie’s legs.

Their guards were clearly waiting for something, looking at their watches and growing increasingly nervous. There was a brass alarm clock on the small table at William’s side of the bed and Anne could see that four hours had passed since the men had burst into the room downstairs. She wondered what had happened to William, and to Anthony.

The telephone had rung only once, and one of the guards had held the receiver to her face. It was a worried Alex Perman, calling to see why they hadn’t arrived at the racetrack. Anne had told him that they hoped to be there for the last race and not to worry.

She had racked her brains for any reason why the men in masks should want her husband. If it had been a straightforward kidnapping, there would have been no need to leave the guards behind. And surely it would have made more sense for the kidnappers to have taken her or Debbie so that William could have organised the ransom. And what could have been the reason for them to have taken Anthony? It didn’t make sense. She clenched and unclenched her fingers, trying to restore the circulation.

“Something wrong?” asked the man sitting on the bed. He looked at her as he ran a gloved hand down Debbie’s calf. She could see his eyes narrow behind the holes in the ski-mask, then she saw his gaze travel down over her breasts to her thighs.

She shook her head. The man was about to say something else when the phone rang, making him start. The other man walked around the bed, nodded at Anne to make sure she understood she was to speak, and picked up the receiver. He tapped her shoulder with the barrel of his gun and put the receiver to her ear.

“Hello?” she said, her heart racing.

“I want to speak to one of the men in the room with you, Mrs Fielding,” said a Chinese voice. A man.

Anne pulled her head away and shook her head. “It’s for you,” she said.

The guard put the phone to his own ear, listened for a while, grunted, and said something in Chinese. He hung up and spoke rapidly to the other man. They both turned to look at Anne and her blood ran cold.

“Lie down,” said the one by the phone. “Face down.”

Anne swallowed. She felt light-headed, almost dizzy, fearful of what they intended to do. “Please,” she begged, “please don’t hurt me.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

Gloved hands seized her and pushed her face down into the pillow. She tensed, certain that they were about to rip her clothes off. Hands grabbed her legs, lifted them, and she felt rough rope bite into her calves. Her fear subsided a little, knowing that they were unlikely to try raping her with her legs tied together. A scarf, a silk Hermès she’d bought at a boutique in the Landmark, was pushed between her lips and tied behind her neck. She heard the two men muttering to each other, then her bedroom door opened and closed. She listened intently as she breathed through her nose and heard the two men clatter downstairs. A few minutes later the front door banged and the house was silent.

Coleman groaned when he saw the police launch heading towards the pier at Ma Liu Shui. It was one of the Marine Police’s older vessels, a Vosper Class launch which was capable of about fourteen knots, on a good day. The smugglers, Coleman knew, usually had thirty-foot needle-point boats with four 350 horsepower engines capable of up to eighty-five knots, and even loaded with a Mercedes and God knows how much gold and cash it would still be more than capable of outrunning the old police launch. Coleman slapped his steering wheel in frustration and cursed Guy Williamson for not sending him a Shark Cat, which could cut through the waves at more than forty-five knots. He parked the Jeep and rushed towards the pier, arriving just before the boat drew up. The Chinese constables on board were preparing to tie the launch up but he shouted that they were to go straight along the coast. He grabbed a pair of rubber-coated binoculars from one of the men and scanned the coastline as the engines kicked into life.

The men on board were armed with service handguns which would be of little use in the choppy sea, but there were two high-powered rifles on board and Coleman had the crew get them out. He asked one of the men to radio for assistance, and if possible to seal off Tolo Harbour at the channel near Sham Chung. He knew it was a futile request; the smugglers regularly used the channel to get everything from cars to video recorders out into Chinese waters, and they were masters at getting past the police patrols.

Coleman looked at his watch. They were cutting it close, he knew, because the Mercedes and the mysterious Toyota were certain to have reached Tolo Highway already. He motioned for the captain to speed up the launch and to get closer in to the land. He was beginning to feel queasy from the unaccustomed motion of the boat and he put down the glasses and took deep breaths of the cool, salty air. The sky overhead was a clear blue with only the faintest feathers of cloud. Seagulls called and circled overhead, lazily flapping their wings in the breeze.

When Coleman put the glasses to his eyes he saw a boat moored next to a short, stubby pier in the distance. The boat was rising and falling in the waves, and it seemed to be low in the water. There was a mobile crane, mounted on the back of a truck, and its lifting arm was extended over the launch. At first Coleman couldn’t see what was being loaded but as the police launch crested a wave he was suddenly able to see the large Mercedes, chains wrapped around it to provide a cradle as it was lowered into place. The police launch dropped down into a trough and the boat and car disappeared from sight.

He pointed in the general direction of the pier and shouted at the captain to take the launch in. As the launch rose again he scanned the coastal road but he could see no sign of the Toyota.

“They’re moving,” said one of the Marine police.

Coleman craned his neck and saw the boat moving slowly away from the pier.

“Try to cut them off!” Coleman yelled. The launch turned to the right and moved to intercept the vessel. As they got closer Coleman could see that the high-powered boat had steel cladding on the sides and a cockpit of thick glass which he’d have been willing to bet a year’s salary was bullet-proof.

“Hail them,” he told one of the constables. The man picked up a mike and his amplified voice cut over the rumble of the launch’s engines. The boat ignored the Cantonese commands and plumes of white water gushed from its stern.

“Fire a warning shot,” Coleman ordered.

One of the policemen shouldered a rifle and fired a single shot, but it had as little effect as the verbal warning.

“Where the hell is the back-up?” Coleman shouted. The man on the radio shrugged and said that they were trying their best. Coleman heard sirens and he scanned the shoreline with his binoculars. He saw three police cars, lights flashing, arrive at the pier. The driver of the mobile crane and three other men tried to escape on foot and he heard the crack of pistol shots.

The smugglers’ boat pulled away at an angle to the police launch, and it clearly had no intention of stopping. He told the constables to try to disable the boat’s engines and they began to fire their rifles, but Coleman could see the bullets spark harmlessly off the steel plates either side of the boat. It pulled away from the slow-moving police launch and headed through the Tolo Channel.

“Keep after them!” Coleman shouted. “At least we can radio their position to base. Any joy with the back-up?”

“We have a Sea Raider at Crescent Island,” replied the radio man.

“That’s better than nothing,” said Coleman. “Call them up, tell them the boat is heading their way.”

Crescent Island was around the corner from Bluff Head at the tip of the channel where it opened out into Mirs Bay. The thirty-knot inflatable Sea Raider stood a better chance of cutting off the smugglers’ boat, which was making good speed but nowhere near the eighty-five knots he’d expected. They were still in with a chance.

The flight over the tower blocks of Kowloon was bumpy in the extreme. Without being able to hold the cyclic, Lehman wasn’t able to tell if it was the up-and-down draughts caused by the wind around the buildings or Doherty’s unfamiliar hands on the controls which were the cause of the rough ride. Doherty had trouble keeping the Huey on a straight heading. Each time he changed the power setting by twisting the collective he forgot to compensate on the pedals, so Lehman was constantly trying to anticipate his movements, and failing miserably. The Huey veered left, then right, like an ailing fish, and Lehman was relieved that Doherty kept the Huey well above the shops, hotels and offices below. It meant that the Huey would be clearly visible on the radar screens at Kai Tak, but at least there was no danger of them hitting a stray television aerial. Doherty had folded the chart of Hong Kong and the surrounding sea over his left leg and he kept looking down at it and cross-checking with his heading indicator. There was a sprinkling of small islands, most with Chinese names, and then further west was a much larger landmass, bigger even than Hong Kong Island, which was shown as Lantau Island on the chart. Beyond Lantau were more islands and Doherty said he thought it best to try one of them; hopefully they’d be beyond the range of Kai Tak’s radar and so far from Hong Kong that they’d be unoccupied.

Lehman was finding it progressively harder to control the swinging motions of the Huey and he decided to speak to Doherty about it. He took his left foot off the pedal and went to press the foot mike button. Immediately the nose of the Huey swung sharply to the right.

“Chuck,” you’re forgetting to compensate for the torque,” warned Lehman.

Doherty shook his head and pressed his mike trigger. “It’s not me, Dan, honest. My pedals aren’t responding as they should.”

Lehman scanned the instruments with a growing sense of alarm. His eyes fixed on the gauge which indicated the transmission fluid level in the tail rotor intermediate gearbox, at the end of the tail assembly. It was in the red.

Lehman clicked his foot mike on again. “No oil in the forty-five-degree gearbox,” he said. “We must have taken a bullet there. It’s going to seize at any time.”

Without oil the gears would soon overheat and lock solid or even fly apart, a catastrophic failure that would have only one result. Without the tail rotor working the Huey would spin hopelessly out of control, unable even to autorotate to the ground.

“Chuck, we’ve got to descend, now!”

“There’s nowhere to land,” shouted Doherty. Lantau Island was a mile behind them and they were less than 200 feet above the choppy waves.

“Reduce power to cut down the torque,” said Lehman.

Doherty hesitated so Lehman twisted his own throttle with his uninjured left arm. The turbine whistle quietened, and almost immediately they heard a metallic grating noise like nuts and bolts in a blender and the Huey began to spin, not as fast as when Doherty had killed Tyler but fast enough to make Lehman nauseated.

“I can’t hold it!” shouted Doherty. “I’m losing it! I’m losing it.”

Lehman pressed down on his left pedal with all his might but it had no effect. The Huey banked sharply to the right and began to slide. Below him Lehman saw the grey, churning sea and out of the corner of his eye a small freighter, its deck loaded with wooden crates. The cyclic was jerking backwards and forwards between Lehman’s legs and he gritted his teeth and grabbed for it with his right arm. He felt the muscles in his upper arm scream and when the cyclic tugged at his fingers he felt as if he was going to pass out. The wound had just about stopped bleeding but the movement of the cyclic ripped it open again and he felt dampness ooze down his arm. He cut the power completely, hoping that would slow down the spinning and he pumped the left pedal until his leg ached. He forced himself to ignore the jagged bolts of agony in his arm as he pushed the cyclic to the left, screaming in pain and frustration as the sea rushed up towards him.