The Solitary Man (47 page)

Gregory's voice came over his headset. 'You're cleared for take-off,' he said.

Austin clicked his microphone switch. 'Cleared for takeoff,' he acknowledged. He rotated the handgrip on his collective-pitch lever with his left hand. Above his head the rotors whirled faster and faster. He pulled the collective up, altering the pitch of the main rotors, and the Apache began to lift off the ground. Austin kept the helicopter within ground effect as he pushed the cyclic-pitch stick forward. The Apache's nose dipped down as it accelerated over the grass, towards the tree line. He pulled on the collective and increased the power and the helicopter leaped into the air like a thoroughbred eager for the off.

HUTCH COULDN'T GET THE smell of the pit off his skin no matter how many times he rinsed himself. He shuddered to think what diseases he could have picked up by immersing himself in human faeces. He used a plastic bowl to splash the last of the water in the tin bath over his legs and then shook himself dry as best he could before putting his clothes back on.

He slipped out of the latrine and headed for Zhou's building. No one saw him: almost all of Zhou's men had congregated at the front of the compound. He threw the transmitter under the building, close to one of the massive stilts. Carver had said that the satellite would pick up the signal to within ten feet, so he wanted it to be as close to Zhou as possible.

Hutch peered around the stilts. Haifa dozen men were carrying Chau-ling's body towards the hut where he'd seen the two prisoners earlier in the evening. He ducked out of sight and watched from underneath the building as the men took Chau-ling inside the hut. A few minutes later they reappeared. He waited until they'd gone before dashing over to the hut and looking through the barred door. Chau-ling was hanging from the roof by her arms, unconscious.

'Chau-ling,' he hissed. There was no reaction. Her head was slumped down on her chest, her eyes closed. 'Chau-ling!' he said, louder this time. He looked around, but there was no one within earshot. 'Chau-ling!' There was still no reaction. Hutch examined the lock on the door. It was an old brass padlock, similar to the one that Zhou had given him to pick. Hutch checked his pockets but he had nothing he could use. He cursed and slapped the bars in frustration.

I I THE OLD WOMAN WOKE with a start. 'Grandmother, Grandmother,' said an urgent, frightened voice by her side. 'Wake up.'

The old woman licked her chapped lips. Her eyes felt gritty and her throat was sore and she could tell from the ache in her bones that she'd only been asleep for a few hours. 'Go to sleep, child,' she said.

'Ghosts,' said the little girl. 'Ghosts are coming.'

The old woman rolled over and blinked her eyes. 'What? What did you say?'

'Ghosts. Can't you hear them?'

'Child, what are you talking about?' The old woman strained to see her grand-daughter in the light of the flickering oil lamp that hung from the rafters of their hut.

The little girl knelt down beside the old woman. She was shaking. 'Can I sleep with you, Grandmother? Please.' Her voice trembled as much as her body.

Before the old woman could answer, the little girl threw herself on to the sleeping mat and slipped her arms around her grandmother's waist. The old woman raised her head. She could hear nothing out of the ordinary, just the wind rippling through the trees and the night-time insects buzzing and clicking. The little girl buried her face in the old woman's neck.

'I heard them,' she whispered. 'They flew through the air, like . . . like . . . like dragons.'

The old woman smoothed her hair and settled back on the sleeping mat. She was eighty years old but could remember when she too was frightened of ghosts.

WINTER LOOKED AT HUTCH as he walked into the room. 'Where've you been, old lad?' he asked.

Hutch patted his stomach. 'Tummy trouble,' he said.

Winter grinned wolfishly. 'That impaling business got to you, didn't it?'

'Something like that.'

Zhou and Bird were standing together with their backs to him. He walked over to the table. The plates had been taken away but the candles still burned in their candelabras and the wine and brandy glasses were still there. He stopped dead when he saw what Zhou and Bird were looking at. A man was sitting on the floor, his hands tied behind his back. It was Tim Carver. His hair was matted with blood and his left eye was swollen. Carver showed no recognition as he looked at Hutch. Zhou drew back his arm and slapped Carver, then backhanded him. The two slaps echoed like pistol shots. Hutch's mind whirled. What on earth were Carver and Chau-ling doing together, and what had prompted them to cross over into Burma? It made no sense, no sense at all. She was supposed to be back in Hong Kong. And Carver was supposed to be in Bangkok, waiting for Hutch to operate the beacon. How THE SOLITARY MAN 391 had the two of them got together, and what had possessed them to cross the border?

Winter waved a blue passport at Hutch. 'He's an American,' said Winter. 'And in this part of the world, a Yank means only one thing.'

'DEA?'

Winter made a gun with his hand and mimed shooting Hutch in the chest. 'Right first time, old lad.'

Zhou hit Carver again.

'What's the story?' asked Hutch.

'That's what we're trying to find out.'

Zhou took his gun from the holster in the small of his back and jammed it up against Carver's neck. 'Tell me why you are here,' he said, enunciating each word slowly and precisely.

Carver started coughing. He turned his head away. There was a gash on his right cheek, and scratches on his neck. Zhou turned the I gun around and brought the butt down on the top of Carver's head with a sickening crunch. Carver slumped to the floor, unconscious. Zhou glared down at him, then slowly put his gun back in its holster. He strutted back to the table and sat down. 'Sit with me!' he boomed.

is Winter, Hutch, Harrigan and Bird took their places around the * table. Zhou passed the brandy bottle and one by one they refilled their glasses. Harrigan's hands were shaking and he spilled brandy on the tablecloth as he poured.

'I hate the Americans,' said Zhou. 'I hate their hypocrisy.' He looked around the table at his guests as if daring them to argue with him. 'They need me. They need me but they pretend that | I'm public enemy number one.' The sunglasses came to bear on Hutch. Hutch could see himself reflected in the lenses of the impenetrable Ray-bans. He smiled and nodded, wanting the man to keep on talking, even though he could make no sense of what he was saying.

'Last year the murder rate in New York City was half what it was in 1990,' Zhou said. 'Year on year there has been a twenty per cent fall in violent crime right across America. I read that in the International Herald Tribune. Do you read the Tribune, Hutch?'

I 392 STEPHEN LEATHER Hutch shook his head. There were two paperclips on the table, close to the base of one of the candelabras.

'You should. You really should. It lets you know how America thinks.'

'I'll read it,' said Hutch. He rested his right arm on the table. The paperclips were only inches from his fingertips.

'Do you know why the crime rate is falling in America?' asked Zhou. They all shook their heads. He tapped his own chest. 'It's because of me. Because of the heroin that I send to America. Ten years ago it was crack cocaine that Americans used. Crack cocaine is a dangerous drug: it causes mood swings, it boosts aggression. A crack cocaine addict is a dangerous animal, Hutch, as dangerous as an injured tiger. But heroin, ah, heroin is different. Heroin is calming; a man on heroin doesn't go out and steal a car or mug a tourist: he sits and dreams. Heroin addicts still steal but they tend to do so without violence. And because I have kept the price down, fewer crimes are committed. I have done the United States a great service, yet they treat me as if I was a gangster. The Colombians, they are the real villains, they are the butchers.'

Zhou looked around the table again. His audience was transfixed. Hutch edged his hand forward and put it over the paperclips.

'Who here has ever taken heroin?' Zhou asked.

Harrigan raised his hand uncertainly. So did Bird.

'It is a harmless release, nothing more,' Zhou continued. 'It has been used as a medicine for centuries. You could use heroin for fifty years and suffer no ill effects. Hundreds of thousands die every year in America from lung cancer caused by smoking cigarettes. Smoking causes heart disease, and half a million die from that every year. Who dies from heroin? Only fools who use too much, who overdose because they are careless. Heroin is safer than tobacco, safer than alcohol.'

Hutch slipped the paperclips into his pocket.

Zhou got up from the table and went to stand at the entrance to the building. He looked out over his compound, his hands clasped behind his back. 'Nobody forces anyone to take heroin. I supply a need, nothing more. We don't advertise like the tobacco . companies, we don't push our product down people's throats. We don't sponsor sports events, we don't run special offers to get them THE SOLITARY MAN 393 to try our product.' He turned around and put his hands on his hips. 'People take heroin because they want to. Because they like it. I give people what they want, and they call me a criminal.' 'Doesn't seem fair, does it?' said Winter.

BART LUCARELLI PUNCHED IN the co-ordinates of the transmitter's location into the data entry keypad with his left hand and cross-checked the numbers on the video monitor. A single digit wrong and they could be tens of miles adrift, and the jungle at night was-as featureless as an ocean. He slipped the piece of paper that the DEA executive had given him on to the clipboard fastened to his right thigh.

'Okay, Bart?' asked Peter Burden through the headset.

'Data's in,' said Lucarelli. 'We should be within range of the transmitter within twenty-five minutes.' He scanned the VDU which was showing an infrared display from the acquisition/designation sight in the nose of the Apache. The sky was clear ahead, just as Gregory had said it would be.

ZHOU GRABBED CARVER'S HEAD and put his face close to the DEA agent's ear. 'You will tell me why you're here,' he shouted. 'You will tell me and then you will die.'

Winter looked at Hutch and raised an eyebrow. Zhou's interrogation technique left a lot to be desired.

Zhou slapped Carver, splitting his lip. Zhou looked at his hand in disgust, then took a napkin from the table and wiped it.

Winter waved the old servant over and selected another cigar. As he lit it, Hutch stood up and rubbed his stomach. 'I'm going to have to use the latrine again,' he said.

'Yeah? Sure you're not just wimping out?' Winter gestured at the bound DEA agent. 'Bit much for you, is it?'

'I don't get a kick out of seeing people being hurt,' said Hutch. 'And I didn't think you did, either.'

Winter leaned closer to Hutch. 'You can't show any weakness here, Hutch,' he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. He looked around theatrically. 'It's a jungle.'

He laughed uproariously as Hutch went outside.

THE FARMER SAT IN the doorway of his house, listening to its timbers creaking in the wind. His wife was upstairs, asleep, their four children curled up on mats behind him. He leaned back against the door jamb and closed his eyes. It had been a good harvest; he'd been right about the quality of the land. The poppies had been tall and healthy with an average of five flowers per plant. Zhou Yuanyi had been well pleased with the crop. Not pleased enough to pay the farmer a bonus, but pleased enough to ride down to the house to thank the farmer personally. The farmer had seen Zhou coming on his white horse and had ushered his daughters inside before going out to meet him. Zhou's taste for young girls was well known in the area and the farmer's eldest daughter was rapidly approaching puberty.

There was a half-empty bottle of Thai whisky by the farmer's side and he reached for it with his eyes closed. His fingers grasped the neck and he raised it to his lips and drank deeply. He deserved a drink: he'd chosen the land, he'd supervised the planting of the poppy seeds, and he'd been in charge of the harvesting of the crop. He was sure he'd get two more decent harvests from the land, maybe three, before the soil was exhausted and it was time to move on.

In the distance he heard a rumbling growl, like a tractor running at full throttle. The farmer opened his eyes. There wasn't a tractor within fifty miles: the hills were too steep for machinery to do the ploughing and the work was done by sure-footed buffaloes. The growl deepened and he took another drink from the bottle. It was coming from the west and getting louder by the second.

The farmer stood up and stretched. He peered at the night THE SOLITARY MAN 395 sky, studded with a million stars. He'd seen planes pass overhead before, but they'd never been as loud as this. And planes made a more regular sound, a constant drone. This was a clattering roar with a high-pitched whistle. He'd never heard a sound like it before.

Something moved at the periphery of his vision and he turned his head. He was fifty years old but he had perfect eyesight. Far off in the distance, following the ridge of a line of hills, two objects moved across the sky. He could barely make out the shape of the silhouettes, but they obliterated the stars as they passed. The farmer took another drink from the bottle. He knew what they were: helicopters. He'd seen helicopters before: the Burmese army used them to search for the poppy fields, and to ferry troops around. But there was something different about the sound these helicopters made. They sounded bigger, and, somehow, more menacing.

HUTCH LOOKED OVER HIS shoulder but there was no one close by. 'Chau-ling!' he whispered. She murmured incoherently. Hutch straightened the paperclip and inserted it into the padlock. He felt for the tumblers. It had been so easy at the dining table, but now he was trembling and there seemed to be no feeling in his fingers. He shook his hand to restore the circulation and tried again. The paperclip slipped from his fumbling fingers and fell to the ground.

I THE JUNGLE FLASHED BELOW the Apache, as dark and seamless as the sea. The cyclic between Bart Lucarelli's legs moved as if it had a life of its own, following the movements made by Peter Burden in the pilot's seat behind him. Lucarelli was staring straight through the armoured windscreen panel but he was taking in information through the monocle sight of the Honeywell Integrated Helmet and Display System which effectively superimposed the 396 STEPHEN LEATHER Apache's key flight data on an infra-red picture of whatever he was looking at. Lucarelli's ears were sweating under the headset, but he ignored the discomfort. 'Thirty-five klicks,' he said.