The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (75 page)

The small green blip on the radar screen winked out. “They’re down,” said the air traffic controller.

The supervisor stood behind him, his arms folded across his chest. “Any land near their last position?”

The controller shook his head. “They were at least a mile north-west of Lantau. There’s nothing there but sea.”

“I wonder what the hell they were playing at?” mused the supervisor. They’d watched the helicopter on the screen as it flew across the harbour to Happy Valley, where it had disappeared from the screens for several minutes. It had reappeared and flown to Stonecutters Island where it had landed for almost five minutes. The police sergeant had radioed Marine Police to send a launch to the island, but before they could respond the controller had called out that the helicopter was on the move again. It flew across Kowloon causing the controllers to put several inbound jets into holding patterns and then disappeared off the screens in the New Territories. The police sergeant had radioed its last position to police at Shatin, but shortly afterwards it had taken to the air again, flying an erratic course to the north of the airport. They’d asked for a visual from a Cathay Pacific 737 and had been told that the helicopter seemed to be in trouble.

The supervisor turned to the police sergeant. “They’ve gone down, into the sea,” he said. “They hit the water pretty hard. I doubt there’ll be any survivors. Helicopters aren’t designed to float.”

The smugglers reached Bluff Head and turned north, heading for Chinese waters. The police launch was about a mile behind and Coleman was having a hard time keeping it in sight, even with the high-powered binoculars.

The radio man shouted to Coleman over the roar of the engines. “We have two Shark Cats on the way,” he called. “They’re off Robinson Island.”

Coleman pumped his fist in the air. The Shark Cats were the Marine Police’s fastest launches. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to Guy Williamson and whichever God it was who looked after policemen. Robinson Island was about five miles north-west of Bluff Head and the launches there would be in a perfect position to intercept the smugglers.

The police launch rounded the peninsula and the waves grew higher, spray slapped over the cockpit and Coleman had to wipe the lenses of his binoculars. His shirt was soaked in salt water but the day was hot and the sensation wasn’t unpleasant. The launch was thrown around by the waves and Coleman had to keep one hand on the guard rail for balance. He turned to the policeman next to him. “Can you see them?”

The young Chinese constable screwed up his eyes. Like Coleman, he was drenched. He shook his head. “Sea’s too rough,” he said.

“Keep the same heading,” said Coleman, “with any luck they’ll turn back, then head east when they see the Shark Cats.”

The radio operator shouted over to attract Coleman’s attention. “They have it in sight, the boat is turning back.”

“Yes!” yelled Coleman. He put the binoculars back to his eyes and panned across the waves. In the far distance he saw the needle-point boat crest a wave, the Mercedes clearly visible on the deck, then it nosedived down and was gone. A second later it reappeared, plumes of spray crashing over its glass cockpit. Coleman could make out three men crouched behind the glass plates, one of them at the wheel, one with a walkie-talkie pressed to his ear, the third looking over his shoulder at the pursuing Shark Cats.

The smugglers’ boat began to turn in the water, trying to double back to Chinese waters, but the Shark Cats were anticipating the manoeuvre and moved to block it. In the distance he heard the crack of rifle shots.

All thoughts of his heaving stomach were gone as Coleman urged the captain on, banging his fist on the guard rail.

“We’re getting close to Chinese waters,” warned the constable. “We don’t have the authority to cross over.”

“Let’s just get the bastards,” said Coleman, his eyes fixed on the fleeing boat.

“We must not cross the boundary,” pressed the constable, but Coleman ignored him.

The Shark Cats were playing cat and mouse with the smugglers, keeping between their boat and the mainland, darting to and fro and firing sporadic bursts at the steel-lined hull. The smugglers made an attempt to get by to the west but one of the Shark Cats got ahead and it turned back, a white wake of foaming water behind it.

Suddenly Coleman heard a loud bang and something exploded a hundred yards ahead of the police launch, kicking up a spout of water twice the height of a man. “What the hell was that?” he shouted.

One of the constables pointed to a large grey launch to the north, about half a mile away. It was flying a red Chinese flag and had two deck-mounted guns, both pointed in their direction. Coleman focused his binoculars on the bridge. He could see four men wearing the uniforms and peaked caps of the People’s Armed Police. On the deck below were a dozen men, several of them carrying AK-47 assault rifles. The launch was steaming in their direction, carving cleanly through the waves. The Shark Cats had given up their chase and were following the Chinese launch like ducklings paddling after their mother.

Coleman heard the hiss and crackle of a loudspeaker, then a strident Chinese voice barked across the waves. It was Mandarin Chinese and he didn’t understand a word. He turned to the constable at his shoulder. “What do they want?” he asked.

“They say we are in Chinese waters and we must go back.”

“Tell them we’re in pursuit of smugglers,” said Coleman.

“It will do no good,” said the constable.

“Tell them!” Coleman insisted.

The constable raised a loudhailer to his lips and spoke to the Chinese launch, which was now less than 200 yards away. When they replied the man lowered the loudhailer. “They say they will deal with the smugglers. They say we must turn back.”

In the far distance behind the Chinese gunboat, Coleman could see the smugglers speeding away, totally unchallenged.

“They’re getting away,” Coleman protested, pointing at the fleeing boat. “Tell them to go after the smugglers. Tell them we’ll wait here. They’re wasting time!”

The constable shrugged and translated Coleman’s outburst. Coleman could tell from the tone of the reply that his request was being denied. “They say we must go,” said the constable. “They say that if we do not turn back, the next shot will be across our bows. The one after that will sink us. I think they mean what they say, Inspector Coleman. We are in their waters, after all.”

“Damn!” cursed Coleman, slamming his fist into the guard rail hard enough to graze his knuckles. The two Shark Cats drew alongside his launch, waiting for his instructions. He looked over at the stone-faced men cradling their AK-47s, and at the officers on the bridge. They returned his stare and Coleman knew without a shadow of a doubt that they meant what they said.

“Turn back,” he said to the men. “There’s nothing else we can do.” He raised his fist to his mouth and licked the bruised flesh over his knuckles. The launch turned in the water and headed for Hong Kong, the Shark Cats either side. Coleman didn’t look back.

The lines began forming outside branches of the Kowloon and Canton Bank before the sun had set. News of the robbery was broken by RTHK on its six o’clock news programme and by nine o’clock both of the colony’s television stations had camera crews outside the depository in Kowloon and were showing footage of streams of uniformed police and technicians in overalls passing in and out of the building. William Fielding had been taken to hospital suffering from concussion but a harassed Alex Perman gave an impromptu press conference in which he said that the bank wouldn’t be able to say how much had been stolen until they had carried out a full inventory of the vaults. A pushy Chinese interviewer had asked if sixty million US dollars would be a fair estimate and Perman had stuttered and shrugged and said he had no way of knowing.

By nine thirty every one of the bank’s 410 automatic teller machines had been drained of cash. An armoured car was sent out to branches in Shatin to replenish the empty machines but it was attacked by a mob wielding sticks and hatchets and it fled. The bank’s head of security, George Ballantine, ordered that no more attempts were to be made to stock up the ATMs. In every one of its branches faxes poured in with instructions to close accounts or to transfer funds overseas.

A small group of the bank’s directors began telephoning managers and ordered them to gain access to their branches and to calm investors if possible. Several managers were severely beaten by angry customers. A mob stole the keys from one of them as he tried to get inside his branch in Mong Kok. They looted the branch, smashed its counters and office equipment, and broke into the branch’s vault.

Some 50,000 dollars were taken and several people were trampled in the crush. Police with electrified batons, stun guns and riot shields broke up the mob and arrested twenty-three men and women.

Petrol bombs were thrown at a branch in Sham Shui Po and police had to use a water-cannon to break up a howling mob demanding their money. By midnight there were armed police standing outside all of the bank’s branches and more than two hundred rioters had been arrested. Following the police clampdown and assurances from the bank that all the branches would be open for business on Monday morning, the crowds began to quieten down and orderly lines formed on the sidewalks with people squatting down and preparing to wait throughout the night. By midnight there was a healthy trade in places in the queue, with those at the front offering to give up their spots for 5,000 dollars. Hawkers began to set up their stalls offering fried food and won ton soup at treble the daytime prices.

The Governor pulled the quilt over his head but the ringing was insistent. He rubbed his eyes and reached for the gold-rimmed spectacles on his bedside table. His wife snored quietly by his side. Ringing telephones never woke her at night: she used to joke that after coping with night feeds for their three children she deserved all the sleep she could get now that motherhood was behind her.

He sat up, slipped the spectacles on, and picked up the receiver. He looked at the alarm clock next to the phone. It was six o’clock in the morning and he’d only been in bed for two hours following an all-night meeting with his Financial Secretary, Banking Commissioner and Police Commissioner.

The voice that spoke to him was Chinese, using slow English, a perceptible pause between each word as if a computer were speaking. The man politely introduced himself but the Governor already knew who it was. There was no mistaking the calculated enunciation of the director of Xinhua, the New China News Agency. The Chinese government had no official diplomatic representative in Hong Kong, but the news agency acted as a de facto embassy, and all communications routed through its spokesman came straight from Beijing. The director was the agency’s highest-ranking official and he was, to all intents and purposes, China’s ambassador in the colony. He apologised profusely for wakening the Governor but said that he had an urgent matter to discuss. The Governor was in no doubt as to the matter in question.

“It concerns the looting of the Kowloon and Canton Bank,” said the director in his measured, emotionless voice.

“We are all very concerned, of course,” said the Governor, briskly. “We are doing everything we can to control the situation.”

“We are especially concerned about an interview your Commissioner of Banking gave to a Chinese journalist this evening,” the director continued, as if the Governor hadn’t spoken. “He intimated that the administration was considering the use of the exchange fund to support the Kowloon and Canton Bank. Is that the case?”

The Governor sighed. It sometimes seemed that half the Chinese journalists in Hong Kong were working for Beijing and not their own newspapers. “That is certainly one option under consideration,” he said slowly. In fact, it was just about the only concrete suggestion that had emerged after five hours of talks.

“You see, Governor, we feel that the use of the exchange fund should be confined to original intention, and that is to support the link between the US dollar and the Hong Kong currency. We feel it unwise to use the fund for any other purpose.”

The Hong Kong dollar was linked to the American currency at the rate of 7.8 HK dollars for every one US dollar, and the government used a huge cash reserve, built up over many years, to maintain that link by intervening on the foreign exchange markets whenever the link came under pressure. “I think the administration would take the view that maintaining the stability of Hong Kong’s banking system is in effect maintaining the strength of our currency,” said the Governor.

“We would differ,” said the director. “We regard the exchange fund as a substantial part of the assets of Hong Kong, assets which will become the property of the People’s Republic of China after 1997. We do not wish those assets to be used to support a capitalist bank which has allowed itself to get into trouble. Hong Kong has made much of its independence and its capitalist ways. We do not now want to see a capitalist bank rescued by Chinese money. Let the bank seek the help of its fellow financial organisations, or go to its shareholders for assistance. You do not see the Seven Sisters, the banks that form the Bank of China Group, asking our government for assistance when times are hard. You do not see the Cathay Bank holding out a begging bowl. The Chinese banks stand by themselves.”

“Director, I think you do not fully appreciate what the use of the exchange fund entails,” said the Governor. His wife snored, rolled over, and tugged the quilt. He allowed it to slide over his legs. “It would be a loan, paid back in full. With interest. It would be a temporary device until we can find some way of stabilising the bank, possibly by arranging a takeover or a merger.”