The Solitary Man (28 page)

Hutch's assigned job was with a group of mainly Thai men THE SOLITARY MAN 221 who were rubbing chairs smooth with pieces of sandpaper rolled around blocks of wood. A balding man of indeterminate age, whose skin was as brown and hard as the wood they were working on, handed a sanding block to Hutch and mimed working on one of the chairs. 'Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go,' said Hutch. The Thais smiled uncomprehendingly. Hutch took the block and set to work.

TIM CARVER SPREAD THE photocopies of the Thai arrest sheets out and studied them. They were written in Thai but Carver could read and write the language almost as well as he could speak it and he had no problem understanding the contents. There was nothing to suggest that Warren Hastings was anything other than a low-level courier who'd taken one chance too many. Carver tapped the photocopied sheets with his cigarette lighter. He wondered if it was worth going to see the Brit, to see if he knew where the heroin had come from, but Carver decided that he'd be wasting his time. As he'd told Jennifer Leigh, one kilo wasn't even a drop in the ocean. Hastings had probably never even heard of Zhou Yuanyi.

Carver lit a cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully. It might be worth keeping an eye on Hastings, though, just in case he had any visitors. He wondered if there was any connection between Hastings and the men who'd been arrested up in Chiang Mai. That had been a dead end, too. Park and the rest of the Thais had refused to co-operate, understandably in view of Zhou Yuanyi's reputation, and the Irishman Ray Harrigan hadn't said a word since he'd been arrested. According to the file on the Chiang Mai ftust, Harrigan was smallfry, too. He'd deteriorated in prison and probably couldn't talk sense now even if he wanted to.

Carver leaned back in his chair and blew an almost perfect smoke ring towards the ceiling. Time was running out. Jake Gregory had stressed the importance of finding a direct link to Zhou Yuanyi, and soon. Carver was determined not to let him down.

HUTCH SHUFFLED OUT INTO the sunlight and shaded his eyes from the blinding sun. It was just after midday and work had stopped. He wasn't sure how long the break would be, or even if they'd finished for the day. He looked around the courtyard. Joshua was sitting in the shade of one of the cell buildings with Baz, his Nigerian cellmate, so Hutch shuffled over to join him. He dropped down beside Joshua and stretched out his legs.

'How are they?' Joshua asked, indicating the manacles.

'Painful.'

'Yeah. Mine too.'

'Do you reckon they just do it to torture us?' asked Hutch.

'Probably. What have they got you doing?'

'Sanding,' said Hutch. He held out his hands. They were red raw from the work. 'You?'

'Labouring. Moving the wood stocks around.'

They were joined by Matt, who sat down next to Hutch. 'I'm sure this is against the Geneva Convention or whatever law it is that governs prisons,' he said. 'It's slave labour, and we haven't even been tried yet.'

'You can't argue with them,' said Joshua. 'They'll just gang up on you and give you a kicking. The only way to get out of it is to bribe them.'

'Yeah, well, I would if I had any money.' 'What about you?' Joshua asked Hutch.

Hutch shrugged. 'Some's been paid into my account, I think. How do I get at it?'

'You can get vouchers from the block office, just to the right of the entrance. You have to go at shower time. They allow you so much a day to buy meals. If you want to buy stuff from outside, you have to do as Pipop said and do it through the trustys.'

'What about the manacles? How much to get them off?'

Joshua whistled softly. 'A lot. Ten thousand baht maybe. Have you got that much?'

Hutch pulled a face. 'I don't know. Maybe. If I get the money, what happens then?'

'You speak to the block boss. The big guard in the office.'

Matt had stripped off his training shoes and socks and was examining his feet. 'Athlete's foot,' he said. 'How do I get to see a doctor?'

Joshua's companion burst into deep-throated laughter. 'A doctor? For foot rot?'

Matt scowled at the Nigerian. 'It spreads if you don't treat it.'

Baz continued to chuckle. 'Foot rot, groin rot, armpit rot, we've got it everywhere. They'll only let you see a doc for really serious stuff. TB. AIDS. Cholera.' As the American put his socks back on the Nigerian stopped laughing. He could see that Matt was close to tears again. 'You can buy talcum powder from the trustys,' said the Nigerian.

'I haven't got any money,' said Matt.

'I can lend you some powder,' said Baz.

The American smiled gratefully but he still looked upset.

Hutch stiffened. Two men were walking across the far side of the courtyard. One of them was Ray Harrigan.

'What's up?' asked Joshua.

'I think I know that guy. The one with the beard.'

'British guy,' said Baz. 'He's in our block.'

'British or Irish?' asked Hutch.

Baz sniffed. 'What's the difference?'

'Do you know his name?'

'Ray, I think. He's in a private cell on our level. The other guy's his cellmate. A Canadian.'

Hutch watched the two men sit down in the shade of one of the buildings on the far side of the courtyard, then got to *rlis feet, grunting as the scabs on his ankles opened again. He hobbled across the courtyard. A guard on the compound wall watched him uninterestedly. The wall was no barrier to escape: Hutch could climb it with a rope and hook or a piece of timber from the factory, but not with his legs chained. He hoped that Chau-ling had put enough money into his account to pay for their removal.

Harrigan had his eyes closed by the time Hutch reached the two men. The Canadian looked up and frowned.

'Hi, how are you doing?' asked Hutch.

'Not bad,' said the Canadian.

'Just arrived,' said Hutch. He bent down closer to Harrigan. 'Are you Ray Harrigan?' he asked.

Harrigan opened his eyes sleepily. He squinted at Hutch. 'Do I know you?'

'We've a mutual friend.'

'Yeah?'

'Billy Winter.'

Harrigan's eyes widened. 'How do you know Winter? Did he fuck you over, too?' He sniggered. 'I suppose he must have done, huh? Why else would you be in here?'

'Just lucky, I guess.'

Harrigan closed his eyes again. He didn't appear to care one way or the other who Hutch was or why he was standing in front of him.

Hutch bent down and touched him lightly on the shoulder. 'Can I have a word, Ray?'

Harrigan's eyes remained firmly closed. 'I'm listening,' he said.

Hutch turned to look at the Canadian. 'Can you give us a few minutes, in private?' The Canadian grinned good naturedly, then stood up and walked away. Hutch waited until he was out of earshot before sitting down next to Harrigan. Harrigan still refused to open his eyes.

'Ray, I'm here to get you out,' said Hutch.

Harrigan said nothing.

'Did you hear me?'

'Billy Winter sent you?'

'Sort of.'

'And you're going to help me escape?'

'That's the idea.'

'You're out of your mind,' said the Irishman.

'I'm serious.'

Harrigan opened his eyes sleepily. 'And who the fuck are you?'

Hutch decided that it would be safer not to tell Harrigan who he really was. There was something wrong with the Irishman. He seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes and his mind appeared to be elsewhere. 'Hastings. Warren Hastings.'

'Well, Warren Hastings, the way I see it, you're the one with his legs chained. How the hell do you plan to get me out of here?' Harrigan scratched his left arm. There was a line of bites close to his wrist as if a mosquito had had several attempts at tapping a vein.

'I haven't worked that out yet,' Hutch admitted.

Harrigan closed his eyes again. 'Well, Warren, when you have worked it out, come back and we'll talk.'

Hutch was about to ask Harrigan what his problem was when the Canadian ambled back. 'All done?' he asked.

'I guess so,' said Hutch. He struggled to his feet. 'I'll talk to you later, Ray,' he said. Harrigan didn't reply but the Canadian gave him a friendly wave. As Hutch hobbled across the courtyard, a trustee blew a whistle and the men began to pour back into the factory.

THE MAN CALLED WONLOP studied the menu. He was sitting' in the business-class section of a Cathay Pacific 747. Basically the choice came down to beef or chicken. Wonlop was a vegetarian, and had been ever since he'd become a monk at the age of fifteen. He'd given up the saffron robes and life of chastity when he'd turned eighteen, but had never again eaten meat. He slipped the menu into the pocket in the seat in front of him, and closed his eyes. He could eat afterwards. There would be plenty of time.

Twelve rows behind Wonlop in the economy section sat his assistant, Polcharn. They had checked in separately and had studiously ignored each other. Polcharn was in his late thirties, a decade younger than Wonlop. They had worked together on a number of jobs over the years, and functioned well as a team. Polcharn had been Wonlop's first choice when Bird had given him the contract on the Chinese girl, not least because he spoke fluent Cantonese.

Wonlop was travelling on one of several passports he owned, all of them containing different names, dates of birth and professions, and he had other documentation to back it up. He wore a grey suit with a blue and grey striped tie and highly polished black shoes, and in the overhead locker was a briefcase which contained nothing more innocuous than a few files, a clean shirt and a copy of the Bangkok Post. He would collect the weapons in Hong Kong from a contact who'd never let him down before. Wonlop would have to pay a premium because of the short notice, but the money Bird was paying would more than cover the cost.

HUTCH'S ARMS ACHED, HIS fingers ached, practically every muscle in his body ached. The sanding team had finished the chairs and moved on to a set of bedside cabinets. The air was thick with dust and Hutch had managed to find a piece of cloth to tie over his face. He could only imagine the damage the dust was doing to his lungs. The Thais he was working with were friendly enough. One of them spoke a little English and Hutch tried to learn a few Thai words as they worked. Once an hour a prisoner took around a bucket of water and they were allowed to help themselves with a plastic cup.

There were a dozen or so trustys lounging around the factory, and two guards. No one in authority inspected their work, but the sanding team worked slowly and methodically and took a pride in its work. The old man who'd given Hutch his sanding block was Thep, the leader of the team. He checked each piece before it was taken over to the varnishing department, and refused to approve any work which was below his exacting standards. Hutch wiped his cabinet with a cloth and nodded to Thep that he was ready for inspection. Thep came over and peered at the cabinet, running his fingers along the side, pulling open its single drawer and examining it carefully. Eventually he nodded his approval. Hutch felt a surge of pride that his work had been given a seal of approval, even if that approval came from a convicted drug dealer who had spent most of his adult life behind bars.

He shuffled over to the varnishing area and placed the cabinet on the ground beside a dining table. Thais with strips of cloth tied across their mouths and noses were applying varnish with small brushes. They worked as carefully as the sanders.

Hutch took a quick look around. The guards were talking by the doorway and there were no trustys close by. Instead of going back to the sanding area, Hutch hobbled towards the wood-turning machines. The noise was deafening but the men operating the lathes had been given no ear protection. Several of the prisoners had stuffed pieces of cloth into their ears in an attempt to protect their hearing, but most of them hadn't bothered. The air was thick with dust and Hutch coughed as he threaded his way through the machines.

Once the wood was cut and shaped it was carried over to the carpenters, the most highly skilled of the factory workers. Hutch had asked Matt to find out from the Thais how the carpenters were selected, and according to the American they were prisoners who had worked as carpenters outside or who were serving long sentences. They assembled the furniture and had access to various tools, which were stored on racks. Hutch walked slowly by the racks, looking for what he needed. The Thai carpenters looked up from their work as he passed. Hutch saw what he was looking for, but before he could reach it, Pipop came over. He shouted at Hutch in Thai, and pointed back to the sanding area. Hutch turned away, and as he did, Pipop punched him in the small of the back. Hutch pitched forward and sprawled on the floor. Before he could get to his feet, the trusty stepped forward and kicked Hutch in the ribs. Hutch rolled over and glared at Pipop.

'Okay, okay!' Hutch shouted. He shuffled backwards, using his hands and feet. The trusty pointed at Hutch and continued to scream. Once he was out of range of Pipop's feet, Hutch stood up and hobbled back to the sanding team.

WONLOP ADJUSTED HIS TIE. The briefcase lay flat on his knees and he put his hands on it like a pianist preparing to play.

He sat in the back of the rented Toyota while Polcharn drove. Polcharn was a careless driver who rarely used his mirrors and consistently left braking until the last possible moment. Wonlop was reluctant to criticise his associate. Besides, Polcharn hadn't been hired for his driving skills.

The traffic was heavy but it was moving smoothly, unlike Bangkok where two-hour traffic jams were common and traffic lights sometimes stayed red for as long as fifteen minutes. Polcharn stamped on the accelerator and the car leaped past a minibus. They were driving through the tower blocks of the Central business district on Hong Kong Island, edifices of glass and steel so close ' together that Wonlop couldn't see the sky.

Polcharn guided the Toyota into an underground car park, stopping to take a ticket from the automatic dispenser. He drove down to the third level. The Mercedes was already there, its engine still running. As Polcharn brought the Toyota to an abrupt halt next to the Mercedes, the briefcase slid forward and bumped against the back of the seat in front of Wonlop. Wonlop said nothing. He opened the door and walked over to the Mercedes. The windows were tinted and all he saw was his own reflection. For all he could tell, he could be looking down the barrel of a gun. Or several guns.

As he reached the Mercedes, the rear door opened. The occupant of the rear seat slid over to make room for Wonlop, and he climbed in, pulling the door shut behind him. There were two big men in the front of the car but they didn't turn around.

The man in the back seat was an obese Chinese wearing a grey suit that barely managed to contain his spreading stomach. He held out a damp hand. 'Welcome to Hong Kong again, Khun Wonlop,' he said.

Wonlop took the offered hand and shook it. He didn't like the Western-style greeting, in fact he disliked most forms of physical contact, but he had no wish to cause offence. 'You look well, Mr Lee,' he said. Both men spoke halting English. It was the only language they had in common. Wonlop took back his hand and placed it on his briefcase. He resisted a sudden urge to wipe his palm.

'You too,' said Lee, beaming. Lee was in his early fifties with an THE SOLITARY MAN 229 oval head that disappeared into his shirt with no sign of a neck. He had small eyes either side of a pug nose, and fleshy lips. He toyed with a large gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand as he spoke. 'It's good to see you back so soon.'

Wonlop gave a small shrug. It had been three months since he'd last worked in Hong Kong, but he didn't care to be reminded of it. Lee charged high prices, and for that Wonlop expected a discretion that bordered on amnesia. It was unprofessional of Lee to have referred to the previous contract. 'Do you have what I asked for?' he said.

Mr Lee looked wounded by the suggestion that he might have turned up empty handed. He opened his hands and turned them palms upwards. 'But of course,' he said. He spoke in Cantonese to the man in the front passenger seat and a cloth-wrapped parcel was passed over. Lee took it and handed it to Wonlop. 'Exactly as you requested,' said Lee.

Wonlop unwrapped the package. There were two guns, both Chinese-made automatics, and two bulbous silencers. Wonlop picked up the guns and checked them.

'Both clips are full. Do you require more ammunition?' Lee asked.

'This will be enough,' said Wonlop as he ejected the clip from one of the guns.

'My standard arrangement applies, of course,' said Lee. 'I will buy them back from you at half the price you pay if they are not fired.'

Wonlop sighted down the barrel of the handgun. 'I shall not be returning them,' he said. He attached the silencer with a few deft twists, then removed it. He sniffed it to check that it had not been used. A used silencer was worse than no silencer at all.

'As you wish,' said Lee. He rubbed his hands together as Wonlop stripped and checked the second weapon. 'Is there anything else I can do for you, Khun Wonlop?'

'Not this time, thank you,' said Wonlop. He rewrapped the guns and silencers and put them in his briefcase. He took out a brown envelope and handed it to Lee before clicking the briefcase shut.

'It has been a pleasure doing business with you,' said Lee, 'I hope to see you again soon.'

Wonlop nodded and climbed out of the Mercedes. He had already decided that he would not be buying any further weapons from Mr Lee.

CHAU-LING WAS SITTING IN the office going through the * kennel accounts when the intercom buzzed. She frowned and pressed the talk button. 'Hello?' she said hesitantly. The intercom was connected to the front gate and she wasn't expecting any visitors. No one spoke. She looked at the clock on the wall. It was eleven o'clock at night. 'Who is it?' she said. She swivelled around and v looked at a black and white monitor on a shelf above the filing cabinets. It had been switched off all day and she'd forgotten to turn it on after she'd locked the gates.

'My car has broken down,' said a man in Cantonese. 'Can I use your telephone, please?' A 'Do you want a breakdown truck?' Chau-ling asked, switching to Cantonese, her first language.

'Can I use your telephone?' the man asked again.

'I'll call a truck for you,' said Chau-ling. 'Where is your car?'

'I'm not sure, it's dark. I had to walk quite a way to get here. Can you open the gate, please?'

'Just a minute,' said Chau-ling. She stood up and switched on the closed-circuit TV. Mickey lifted his head off his paws and watched her. The screen flickered and then she saw a man in his late thirties wearing a polo shirt and jeans. He looked up at the camera and waved. He looked respectable enough, but apart from the Filipino maid in the servants' quarters, she was alone in the compound and was reluctant to admit a stranger after dark. Chau-ling went back to the intercom. 'Wait there, I'll call a mechanic,' she said. 'He can pick you up at the gate.'

The man rubbed the back of his neck and stared directly into the camera. 'Can I call my wife? She'll be worried about me.'

Mickey growled softly as if sensing that something was wrong. Chau-ling's brow creased into a frown. The man was polite enough, but she didn't like the way he kept insisting on being allowed to use THE SOLITARY MAN 231 the telephone. Minnie got to her feet and walked stiff-leggedly over to join Mickey. The two Dobermanns stood looking at Chauling, their ears at attention. Chau-ling clicked her tongue a few times and then reached for the telephone. It wouldn't hurt to give the local police a call. Besides, they might be able to help get the man's car started. She put the telephone to her ear but there was no dialling tone. She looked back at the closed-circuit television monitor. The man had gone. Chau-ling clicked the receiver several times but the telephone was dead. She put down the handset and stood up.

Mickey and Minnie followed her outside. It was a hot night and the air was filled with the sound of clicking insects. Chauling stopped and listened. A dog in the kennels to the right of the office barked, and soon there was a cacophony of howls and yelps. 'Come on, guys,' she said to the Dobermanns and walked briskly to the house.

The back door was unlocked and she went into the kitchen and picked up the wall-mounted telephone. This time she did hear a dialling tone. The telephone had a long lead and she walked with it over to the refrigerator where there was a list of important numbers held on to the door with a magnet in the shape of a slice of pizza. She tapped out the number of the local police station, but before she reached the last digit the line went dead. She stared at the telephone. Mickey growled and padded over to the kitchen door.

'What's wrong, Mickey?' asked Chau-ling. The door was ajar and she went over to lock it. Before she reached it she saw a man walking in the direction of the house. It wasn't the man she'd seen on the monitor, this stranger was older and heavier and wearing a suit. He was smiling, but it was a tight, nervous smile and his eyes were hard as he walked purposefully towards her. His right arm seemed unnaturally stiff and as he got closer she realised that he was holding something pressed against his leg. A gun.

Chau-ling's heart raced. She rushed to the door and locked it with fumbling hands. The man broke into a run and brought the gun up. She ducked as he fired and one of the panes of glass in the door exploded. A shard of glass cut her cheek but she barely noticed the pain as she scrabbled across the linoleum floor 232 STEPHEN LEATHER towards the hall. Mickey and Minnie were barking furiously. As she crawled into the hall, Chau-ling realised that she'd left the key in the kitchen door. All the intruder had to do was reach in through the broken window and he'd be able to let himself in. She cursed herself for her stupidity. There were no guns in the house, and the only knives were in the kitchen.