A Killing Air

by Nigel Price

  There was the slightest thrill being out in the night, clandestine again. Like the old days. He didn’t especially have an aim in mind. Rather a need to poke around. Check out the lie of the land. Not for any particular reason. Curiosity. And he knew what that had done to the cat.

  At the tree line he turned and looked back at the house. It sat like a vast architectural exercise in art deco or Bauhaus. With Chinese characteristics. Out buildings were single-storey, like chicks scratching round some great concrete mother hen. All very strange. Perhaps they were on rollers, and at the flick of a switch would slide sideways to expose missile silos concealed beneath. Or the tallest of the trees were capable of pivoting backwards to make way for a take-off pad for jump jet fighters. Or …

  Harry smiled to himself and entered the woodland, pushing through the trees heading away from the building complex and towards the boundary. It seemed to go on for ever. The further he went, the steeper the incline. On the lower slopes thick scrub crowded between the trunks making the going difficult. The ground underfoot was of dried leaves. Noisy. As he moved he swept them aside with his toes, trying to move as silently as possible. He had worked in jungle before. He remembered his first impression of the stuff. Hot woodland. Nothing special. At first. Then he had become familiar with its idiosyncrasies. Vibrant and largely hostile insect life. Entanglements that held you back, sapping your strength as you attempted to peel them off and push through. Deadfall that could crush you at night if you pitched your bedding underneath without first checking the overhead canopy. And enemy contacts at close quarters, measured in yards.

  He met the wall. One minute he was pushing through black undergrowth, the next his nose was up against brick. A thin track ran alongside it, probably circumnavigating the estate. He looked up. The top was so high as to be invisible in the dark.

  Something caught in his nose. A scent. Then it was gone. He turned to the right and moved along the track for a short way. It was barely shoulder width. Too narrow for a man to use with ease. Strange. It would have made sense to clear the brush for at least a couple of yards to make progress swifter.

  The track went on and on. Harry stopped. Where was he going? What was the point? Perhaps it was time to go back to bed. There would be another chat with Miller in the morning. It might be an idea to try and get more sleep before that.

  There was that scent again. The slightest hint on the breeze. He moved forward a few paces and stopped. Sniffed the air. Crouched down and padded the ground with the flat of his hand. Shit.

  Dog shit. Hard and dried. But dog. Now he knew why the track was narrow. It wasn’t meant for human guards to patrol.

  Harry felt himself tense. He opened his mouth and popped his ears the better to listen. Only the sound of the topmost branches moving in the night breeze.

  The dog shot out of nowhere. Utterly silent until the last second. Harry spun to face it as it made its leap. A big dark shape launched up from the ground and straight at him as if it had come out of the earth itself. Instinct took over. Harry spun and flattened his back against the wall. He felt the fur brush his cheek as the great bulk shot past.

  The dog landed, skidding in the dried leaves. Harry knew what came next. The face-off preceding a second attack. He squared off against the dog. It was crouching low, gathering itself. If it was a trained attack dog he knew it had probably been taught with a left arm being offered for it to bite. He only had one chance to get this right. For all he knew there were others hurtling towards him at that moment. This one had to be silenced now.

  He held out his left arm, goading the beast. It took the bait and went for the arm exactly as it had been trained to do. Confident, it shot forward with the full momentum of its bulk behind it. Harry drew his arm in, the dog with it. Like a bull fighter he turned on his heel as the dog passed him, still going for the proffered arm. Harry timed it precisely then dropped onto the dog’s back, encircling its ribcage with both arms in a bear hug. He pressed down with his full weight, crushing the dog beneath him. An experienced attack dog would have learned to go for a leg bite instead of the arm. The animal under him twisted and convulsed, caught in a trap for which it had not been trained. Harry could sense its confidence vanishing, replaced with a panicked anger. Not the killer instinct of a second ago.

  It tried to crane round and snap at him, but his face was out of reach. He emitted a low rumbling growl from his chest which the dog could feel. It was being controlled by an Alpha and it didn’t like it.

  Harry knew that he couldn’t release the beast. It would attack again or at the very least stand out of range and bark. Which would be worse. Summoning other dogs or humans. With his weight still pinning the animal to the ground, he gripped it round the throat with both hands and squeezed. Closing the windpipe, he felt the dog fight it with a series of mad convulsions, its back legs clawing the ground in desperation.

  At the precise moment he felt the beast go limp, Harry released his hold. His hands stood ready to re-apply the grip. It wasn’t necessary. The dog had lost consciousness but wasn’t dead.

  Breathing hard, Harry stood up. He knew he didn’t have long. Once the dog came round it would be off and running, howling like a baby. Then all hell would come to call.

  He retraced his steps to the point where he reckoned he had hit the track and headed back up the slope through the brush. This time he didn’t care about being silent. Branches whipped and snapped at him. His feet hit sharp twigs and stones.

  All of a sudden he heard the baying of the recovered dog. The call was instantly taken up by others, replying from somewhere else in the huge compound. It grew into a single rolling howl, interspersed with barks and yelps as the pack came to the rescue, excited by the thrill of the hunt.

  Harry burst out of the tree-line onto the lawn. He had emerged some way further over from his entry point but he could see the low buildings in front of him. He had some fifty yards to cover. His feet slipped on the soaked grass and he went down.

  From the balcony ringing the mother hen building, a beam of white light burst into the night, splitting the darkness like a can opener. It started to rake the lawn from side to side, seeking out the source of the alarm. The dogs’ barking had coalesced. They had met with his attack dog and were converging on his track as a single mass of teeth, claws and death. They would tear him to pieces. This time there would be no feint or dodge or smart-arse moves.

  He was on his feet and sprinting across the lawn. He reached the gravel path as the dogs broke from the trees. They saw him and went berserk. The searchlight found them. Whoever was wielding the light traced a line from the dogs, using their direction to project forward to Harry. His apartment was yards ahead. He wasn’t going to make it. The light would pick him out. Then the dogs. He could smell them.

  His arm was grabbed and an immense force yanked him clean off his feet and in through a doorway. He went flying across a bare wooden floor as the door slammed shut behind him. The body of the foremost dog slammed into the far side of it. Through the safety of the thick wood Harry heard it yelp. The window was bathed in sudden light as the searching beam scouted round for the source of the dog’s distress. The rest of the pack was on the path, barking and snarling this way and that, seeking him out. They could smell him. Some of them went to another apartment. Their attention moved on, confused. The beam of light hovered a moment then moved on, tracking away to explore other buildings in the complex.

  Harry pulled himself into a sitting position, breathing hard. He peered into the dark interior of the room. Another body was beside him on the floor. He felt hands on his arm, moving up towards his face. Fingers gripped his cheek, turning his face in the right direction.

  “What are you doing?” Lisa hissed. “Whatever are you doing, Harry Brown?”

  “I thought I’d take the air,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant instead of scared witless.

  “You are mad.” She slid away across the smooth floor and a moment later the small bedside light popped on.
She was dressed in Hello Kitty pink pyjamas. Elasticated cuffs and ankles.

  “I wouldn’t let the dogs see that,” Harry said, pointing to the large white Kitty face in the centre of her chest.

  She shook her head angrily, eyes glaring at him. “What if they come to check we are in our rooms?”

  “Then we’ll have to pretend I slipped in here for company,” Harry said.

  “Covered in scratches?”

  He looked down at his arms and feet. The branches and scrub had made their mark on him. “I’ll tell them you were a tiger in bed.”

  She got up and went to the bathroom muttering savagely.

  “I’d better go,” Harry said.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she snapped over her shoulder. “How can you? With the dogs still out there.”

  “My room’s just across the way. I can make it in a short burst.”

  The beam of the search light swept across the window again, lingering on Lisa’s doorway as if trying to probe for the truth.

  “You can sleep on the sofa,” she said, returning with a box of tissues and a glass of warm water. She knelt beside him and started to dab at the scratches.

  “I think you’re making them worse,” Harry said, watching her. “Look. They’re bleeding again. They need to be left alone so they can scab over.”

  “At least they’ll be clean.”

  Harry grunted. He didn’t like being ministered to. Certainly not by someone dressed in Hello Kitty pink pyjamas. He found himself looking at her feet. They were slender, the toes delicate like small perfect sweets in a box. The nails were painted the same pink as her backpack.

  “So what’s with pink?” he asked, for want of anything else to say.

  She tried to ignore him but couldn’t. “Nice colour. Pretty.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “What do you know about Ryder Chau? You seem terrified of him.”

  She continued to dab, eyes on the job. “There is every chance he will be the next General Secretary. The holder of real power. Is that not reason enough to be scared of him?”

  “Not really. People can hold power without being scary.”

  She looked up and considered him. “You travel to China on business. You come in, have your meetings, and you leave. You really know very little.” Like the cuts on his arms, her words stung him.

  “Tell me then.”

  She had finished bathing his scratches and started to pat them dry with a towel. “Ryder Chau has been a mayor and a governor. He has done all the right things to position him for his next great move. He is a member of the Central Politburo. It is rumoured that he is about to become a member of its Standing Committee.”

  “But why dangerous?”

  “Let me finish,” she snapped. “When he was a governor he experimented with a revival of Cultural Revolution-era politics. He proved himself to be a rabble-rouser. He aimed his pronouncements at the peasantry, people who had lost out in the market-based economic reforms. People who were disillusioned lapped up his Red Culture speeches. But he only pretended to promote egalitarian values. He is the last man ever to be one of the people. He only uses them for his own move on power.”

  “Okay, but that’s what politicians do the world over.”

  She sighed, clearly not finished. Chastened, Harry shut up and let her continue.

  “He wants a more assertive foreign policy. If he ever gets supreme power, it is impossible to say what the repercussions will be throughout the Asia-Pacific. Indeed, the world. He wants a much more aggressive policy towards Japan. He wants China to own the whole of the South China Sea. All the disputed islands with the Philippines, Vietnam, but mostly Japan. And that would put China in direct conflict with America. It could lead to war. And China would lose.”

  Harry thought about it. He knew huge resources were being pumped into the military, especially the Chinese Navy. He wasn’t so sure about China losing if it came to a shooting war. He said so.

  “You are wrong. China could never win against everyone. America would support Japan. Vietnam and the Philippines would use any opportunity to seize control of disputed territory. And who knows what Russia would do? They would love a chance to steal territory in the north. It would be disastrous.”

  “Okay, so he might be a danger on the world stage. But here? Now? On a personal level?”

  Lisa smiled at him sourly. “Have you forgotten Mrs Yan?”

  “That’s a big leap to make. We don’t know he was connected with that.”

  Her eyes widened. She stared in mock-disbelief. He got the point.

  “Well. We’ll find out soon enough,” he said. He retrieved his arms and inspected her handiwork. “Thank you.”

  “There is more,” she said. “Ryder Chau has all manner of business dealings.”

  “I did wonder how a simple man of the people could afford all of this,” Harry said, taking in the guest apartment.

  “There have been rumours of corruption at the highest levels, but whenever Hans and people like Herbert Zhu have got anywhere near the truth, the investigations have been shut down.” She paused, measuring her next words. “People have disappeared. People I know. That is why I am scared of him. And you should be too.”

  Twenty One

  The Clive Miller who joined them at breakfast might have been a different man from the one who had bailed them out of jail. Gone was the smile. Gone was the easy manner and casual confidence. In their place was a basket of jerks and fidgets and ticks. He might have been sitting on a joke chair, small electric currents randomly firing into him.

  “What school did you go to?”

  Harry paused, a piece of toast half way between his plate and his mouth. “Sorry?”

  “School. What school did you go to?” He had become momentarily imperious. He sat back surveying Harry with evident contempt, yet holding it at bay until he had his answer.

  Harry told him. A minor public school in the Home Counties founded in the mid-nineteenth century to provide the Empire with unquestioning administrators, minor officials and cannon fodder. It had achieved great success, for hardly a single one was remembered.

  Miller had his reward. His smile made a brief, extremely unpleasant return. He permitted himself a chuckle. “I don’t think we ever played you at cricket.”

  “We?”

  The name of Miller’s alma mater rolled from his tongue like the launch of a grand, sea-going vessel. What intrigued Harry was why the man should hide behind something so long in the past. It told him a lot about the person lounging at the head of the table. It also identified the crest on his blazer and buttons and – today – his tie and his cuff links. It was a banner which Clive Miller waved at the world to force upon it the impression that he was not an insignificant mammal on the road to death and decay. That he – Clive Miller – mattered. Harry suspected that the ruse had worked on Ryder Chau. Mr Chau had bought into the paraphernalia of class and status as practised with expertise by the British. Ironic, Harry thought, for one supposedly so egalitarian.

  “I wouldn’t know if we played you at cricket or not. I hated the game.” Harry munched his toast. There was even a passable marmalade on the table – coarse cut – decanted into a porcelain pot complete with matching spoon. Harry wondered if it was another result of Miller’s influence on the Chau household.

  Miller’s nose wrinkled further. Speaking more to himself he directed his response to the air at his side. “Don’t like cricket? Good heavens.”

  Harry smiled to himself. Miller’s character was becoming more transparent by the minute. “What did you do after school?” he asked mischievously.

  Miller busied himself with his nails, inspecting the cuticles. “Usual sort of stuff.”

  “University?”

  “Good Lord, no. The City.”

  “Beijing?” Harry couldn’t help himself. Lisa looked from one to the other, completely lost in their intra-tribal contest.

  Miller gave him a withering look. “The City. London.”

 
; Oh. Harry had been corrected.

  Miller finished his cuticle inspection and crossed his long legs. “What about you?”

  “University then Army.”

  “Oxbridge?” Miller asked.

  “No. Too stupid,” Harry chuckled, noting Miller’s relief. “I couldn’t think what to do afterwards so took the Queen’s shilling.”

  “I can imagine. Squaddie?”

  “Sandhurst.”

  Miller didn’t like that. He snapped a command at the white-jacketed waiter who had received them the night before. Harry caught the words ‘coffee’ and ‘pot’. He only missed the rest because Miller’s pronunciation of Mandarin was worse than his own. Execrable in fact.

  “I often wondered if I should have gone to Sandhurst,” Miller said. Harry wanted to remark that from what he’d seen, Miller wouldn’t have had a hope in hell of passing selection. Let alone sticking the miseries and privations of the course.

  “I’d probably have done a tour in the SAS.” Reluctantly he asked, “Did you ever …?”

  “Lord, no.” Harry chuckled. “I’d never have been good enough.” He enjoyed seeing the pleasure that brought to his host. “It takes the sort of single-minded dedication I didn’t have. I was quite happy bumbling along in the Rifles.”

  Miller warmed to that. “Is that how you’d describe yourself, Harry? A bumbler?”

  “Absolutely. In Afghanistan that’s what they called me. Bumbler Brown.”

  The smile on Miller’s face faded to a shadow of its former self. “Afghanistan? You served there?”