A Killing Air

by Nigel Price

  Their two heads nodded.

  Though barely a hundred yards to the office block, Harry felt his skin tingle every step of the way. He half expected to be gunned down at any moment. It was that old feeling in the exact centre of the back. Utterly exposed. Just waiting for the slam and thud of lead into flesh and bone.

  They reached the office, mounted the few steps to the door and entered. In front of them a counter barred the way from wall to wall. Alfred reached to a small black button and pressed it. Somewhere from the deep interior they heard the ringing of a bell. Alfred smiled. Isn’t it all great fun?

  Harry and Lisa responded. Yes, isn’t it just?

  It took two more rings to produce a youth behind the counter. He slouched into view, the stub of an unlit cigarette hanging precariously from his lower lip. He gawped at Alfred who burst into the reason for their visit.

  The youth replied. Even Lisa couldn’t understand. As she was speaking, she glanced at Harry and pulled a face. Whatever part of China he was from, his dialect was nothing she could grasp. Alfred though seemed to have got used to it.

  “He says there is no one here just now. He is only the junior under-clerk. He’s only been here a while like me. You will have to come back later.” He smiled. “As I said, when Mr Wai comes back, I am sure …”

  Harry heaved a meaningful sigh. “Surely he can just look. Presumably it’s filed in some logical system. H for Hideyoshi, by date, by customer …” He held out his arms in desperation. “B for boat.”

  Alfred chuckled. “Very good. B for boat.” He translated the joke for the youth who screwed up his face in utter puzzlement. Nonetheless he mumbled something, turned about and slid from the room.

  Alfred continued his smiling appraisal of his two guests. His two guests looked smilingly on, while inside they were bursting.

  The youth slouched back to the far side of the counter and wailed something at them. Alfred translated. “Yes, the file’s here.”

  Harry, Lisa and Alfred all looked at one another then at him. In his clearest Mandarin Harry said, “So can we have it, please?”

  In response the youth held up a receipt. There was Chinese writing on it. Trying his hardest to be understood, the youth read aloud in Chinese, “Strictly Private. For sole attention of …” he screwed up his eyes with the effort of deciphering the next characters, “… Mr Clive Miller.”

  Harry smiled as if the man was a fool, though a pleasant one who could be forgiven for an oversight. In precise Mandarin he said, “That’s me. I’m Clive Miller.”

  At his side he felt Alfred Lo shift slightly. There was the politest cough. “David Lin said you were …”

  Lisa placed a hand on his arm and drew him aside. “Tell me, Alfred …” With the greatest consideration that one human being ever showed to another, she engaged him in conversation, all the while drawing him to face her and away from the counter.

  The youth tried out his broken English. “You got ID?” He didn’t seem to care one way or the other, taking greater pleasure in showing off his language skills.

  Harry reached into his pocket, rummaged around, then pulled out the card that Miller had given him. Crumpled and soiled, he showed it to the youth. On one side was Miller’s name and contact details in English, on the other in Chinese, ‘Harry, do give me a call.’

  The youth took it and studied it. “Not proper ID.” He shook his head from side to side for emphasis.

  “In England we don’t have ID cards,” Harry said with a pomposity worthy of Miller. “I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got.” He repeated it in Mandarin for good measure.

  The youth didn’t seem overly fussed. He lifted a segment of the counter to let Harry onto hallowed ground. “This way.” Harry was handed back the card and slipped it into his pocket.

  As he went he saw Lisa flooding a confused and concerned Alfred with charm and a million questions about everything to do with his fascinating job as a minor official in a Chinese customs department.

  The youth led Harry into a large back office where rows of grey metal filing cabinets filled most of the available space. It was one of the most depressing places Harry had ever seen. A place where human souls were sent to die. One cabinet stood open and Harry was led to it. The youth rummaged amongst a mess of papers. A moment later, a thick brown package was placed in Harry’s hand.

  Forty Five

  The package was sealed. Harry broke it open, lifted the flap and took out a thick document held together by a heavy duty staple in the top left-hand corner. Not surprisingly it was all in Chinese. It was going to take Lisa an age to trawl through the lot.

  The youth stood at his elbow sniffing. He mumbled something. Harry ignored him. The youth said it again.

  “What?” Harry was flicking through the document, trying to look as if it made complete sense to him, but all the while wondering how he had ever been so stupid to assume that this might be their ticket to salvation.

  “No good.”

  “What’s no good?”

  “That,” said the youth, stabbing a finger at a page that hung from the back of the document. Harry looked at it. From the page numbering he could tell that it came from the middle of the document. At some point it had been detached and then reattached, having been used for some purpose or other. It was another list of contents.

  “That,” the youth repeated, irritated that the visitor couldn’t understand his English.

  His finger picked out one line. ‘Xanitol’. Written in Chinese, Japanese and English. And next to the name further columns indicated the quantities.

  The youth put his hands to his throat and mimed someone choking. Eyes bulging, tongue sticking out. He broke into a huge grin. Then sobered and shook his head, trying to mean it. With an immense effort, he rolled out his sparse English again. “Poor. Baby.”

  Harry felt himself go cold. He remembered that he was supposed to be Miller. “Yes,” he said. “Poor baby.” In Mandarin he added, “And lucky it didn’t get into the national news.”

  The youth chuckled. The fingers of one hand rubbed imaginary notes. Cash. “Poor. Baby. Lucky. Family.” He winked.

  Staying in character, Harry winked back. “Yes. Lucky family. Except Mrs Yan didn’t go for that, did she? She wasn’t quite so lucky.” He grinned and the youth joined in, not understanding a word of it.

  Harry slid the file back into the envelope and pressed the flap closed. The youth held out his hand to receive it back. Instead Harry put it under his arm. “Thank you,” he said carefully. Added another wink for good measure.

  The youth’s face clouded as he realised Harry intended taking the package with him. He shook his head vigorously. “No.” Then a stream of something in whatever dialect he had been born with. He reached again to take it back, shoving his hand at the package more aggressively.

  There were raised voices in the outside office where the counter stood. The door to the filing room burst open and a tall, broad-shouldered man came in, eyes wild. He looked from the youth to Harry and back. He snapped something at the youth who looked terrified.

  Harry had a shrewd idea he’d been rumbled. Of greater concern, a second man came in behind the newcomer. Bigger and broader. To Harry he looked as if he had just walked in off the Steppes. He looked about as clerical as Genghis Khan’s champion wrestler. Harry shifted the package to his left hand as his right went into his jacket pocket and felt the reassurance of gun metal.

  The man’s eyes went to the file in Harry’s possession. There was a quick-fire exchange between the newcomer and the youth. Harry got the gist of it. What the fuck have you given him? The youth explained. There was a look of horror on the newcomer’s face as the document was identified. Where the fuck did you find it? The youth pointed innocently to the open filing cabinet and his initiative was rewarded with You stupid … and so on.

  The big man’s eyes looked as if they would pop out on springs. His face turned scarlet and he launched himself at Harry. “Give me that. Who are you?”


  Desperate to redeem himself, the confused youth blurted out the answer which even Harry understood. “He said he was Mr Miller.”

  “I take it you’re Mr Wai?” Harry said in a last attempt to avoid the unavoidable.

  “Give me that” Mr Wai shouted, covering the last yards. Behind him, The Wrestler advanced like a battle tank.

  “Of course,” Harry said, and held it out. Mr Wai reached for it. Instead of receiving it as expected, the package changed direction, moved in a wide accelerating arc in mid-air and slammed him across the face.

  With Mr Wai blasted aside, The Wrestler came on, head lowering into hull-down mode, arms spreading to take hold of his opponent.

  Harry whipped the pistol from his pocket and brought it into the aim, muzzle pointing dead centre chest. He might as well have been offering a sweetie. Without faltering, The Wrestler powered straight at him. With a speed Harry would not have thought possible for a man of his size, one great paw scythed through the air and knocked the gun flying.

  Oh shit. “Lisa!” He flung the package high across the room. On the far side by the door, Lisa and Alfred had appeared. She reached up to catch it. Alfred tried to intercept her and the two of them went down grappling for the prize.

  Harry had once been hit by a car. It had been many years before and he hadn’t been particularly damaged. Nonetheless it was an experience he had hoped not to repeat. As The Wrestler slammed into him he felt himself simultaneously lifted off the ground and, unlike his car encounter, enfolded in a bear hug that tightened like a vice. He felt the breath squeezed from him, his ribs protesting like straining joists. His arms had been pinned to his sides. As he left the floor, his whole body writhed and convulsed. All the effort was wasted.

  He tried to bend his head forward to see if he could deliver a head butt to The Wrestler’s nose, but his opponent kept his face turned down and aside. He knew exactly what Harry intended and wasn’t going to fall for it.

  The embrace tightened. With Harry locked firmly in his arms, The Wrestler waddled towards the nearest wall.

  Here it comes. Harry knew the next bit. He was going to be tenderised by being repeatedly slammed against brick. This wasn’t going to be the car smack. It was going to be a whole series of them. Great.

  Seizing his one and only chance, he chose a point where The Wrestler was mid-waddle, legs astride, and using his own swinging legs as a fulcrum, swung them up and in-between with all his might.

  Contact. Harry’s shins found their mark – The Wrestler’s scrotum. There was the slightest pause in his forward momentum. Somewhere in the interior of the car, deep under the bonnet, some crucial component had snapped. The Wrestler’s face came up, eyes peering through slits of flesh, ferocity vying with pain.

  Harry brought his forehead down on the bridge of nose offered to him. Then again. When he drew back for a third go, the nose was twice the breadth than seconds before. Blood gushed from it. With anger and agony The Wrestler released his hold, the better to lay hands on his tormentor and tear him to pieces.

  The moment Harry felt his feet connect with the floor, he covered up against the rain of blows coming at him. Still backed against the wall, he hunched, face down, arms up and blocking. He looked up from under his brows, watching for an opening.

  There it was. Fleeting but there. His right fist came up in a savage upper cut to The Wrestler’s chin. The punch caught him square under it. His head jarred back. He took a full step away from Harry which gave Harry the chance he needed. With feet firmly planted, he let rip into The Wrestler’s gut. It had all the solidity of a gym punch bag. Extra heavy variety. Leather. As he worked, Harry glanced up. His blows were telling. Inch by inch The Wrestler was giving ground, trying to find an angle to return to the attack. He was a man unused to being on the receiving end.

  The Wrestler swung in with a wild hook. Harry ducked underneath it. Came up and with his right, slammed a punch into the side of The Wrestler’s throat.

  That hurt you.

  He tried to do it again but The Wrestler was a fast learner. He pulled back out of range to reassess his opponent. He circled round, looking for a way back in. He didn’t like the punching. It wasn’t his chosen skill. He wanted to grip and crush, twist and snap and break.

  Stop mucking around, Harry. Time to end this.

  Across the room he could see Mr Wai coming round. He was stabbing numbers into his mobile. Then gabbling into it. Any second now he’d finish ordering his pizza or whatever he was doing, and throw himself into the struggle. Then it would be over quickly. As The Wrestler came at him, Harry took a short step backwards, steadied, and fired a kick straight into his balls. His right foot flicked up, the instep being his weapon of choice. Kin Geri, if he remembered correctly. Not a nice blow. Not the sort you could ever use in a contest. But in a real fight there was nothing like it. Low, fast and hard.

  He saw the effect in The Wrestler’s eyes.

  Now.

  As The Wrestler doubled over, hands clutching his testicles, Harry went in to finish him. Raining punches from above, he slugged him to the floor, completing the job with a final drop-punch.

  He stood back panting hard. His knuckles were bloodied and bruised. A quick glance at Wai saw him going for Harry’s gun. Harry ran at him. Got to it first. Snatched it up. Stuffed it in Wai’s livid face.

  “This what you wanted?”

  His thumb squeezed off the safety, making sure Wai understood what he’d just done. Wai slowly backed away, hands coming up in surrender.

  “Leave the file,” Wai said in English. “You have no idea what you are dealing with. Or who.”

  “Whom,” Harry smiled.

  “What?”

  “No, whom?”

  “Harry!” Lisa shouted from the door. “Don’t be stupid. Come on!”

  Keeping Mr Wai at gunpoint, Harry moved to the door. Alfred Lo was nursing a claw scratch across his face. Lisa put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Alfred. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  He looked as if he was going to burst into tears.

  “Get the car,” Harry said. “Bring it over. I’ll watch this lot.”

  She took them and set off across the car park. Harry stood by the open door, eyes on the four men. The Wrestler was snoring through his broken nose, blood and breath frothing. Mr Wai stood with hands up, glaring, watching for any chance to attack. Alfred moved well out of Harry’s way. He looked terrified. Next to him, the youth was sullen but too scared to try any heroics. Instead he retrieved his cigarette stub and propped it back between his lips.

  “Your phone,” Harry said to Mr Wai. “Now.”

  “Come and get it.”

  Harry aimed his gun.

  “Would you kill me for a phone?” Wai snarled.

  Harry shifted his aim lower. “No, but I’d put a bullet through your knee cap.” He closed one eye to get the shot right.

  The mobile came scudding across the floor. He picked it up. “Thank you.”

  From the distance came the noise of the little engine doing its best impression of a roar. Harry glanced across and saw Susan’s Chery slicing across the car park towards him. It screeched to a halt outside the building. Lisa gave him an immense grin of satisfaction and called, “Grand Theft Auto.”

  “Out,” Harry called.

  “What?” Her jaw set, ready to fight.

  “Please,” Harry said. “I’ve done this before. I know what’s coming.”

  With a face like thunder she did as she was told, ran round to the passenger door and got in, slamming it after her. Harry backed out of the filing room, kicked the door shut behind him and snatched at a chair, tilting it and wedging its back under the door handle. It would buy him a few seconds.

  He ran down to the car and jumped in. “Here,” he said, handing Lisa the gun. “Don’t shoot anyone. Just point it at them.” She brightened, inspecting the pistol.

  She wound down her window and poked the muzzle of the gun through it just as Mr Wai smashed his way t
hrough the inner door and burst out into the open. He was gabbling into another mobile.

  “Shit,” Harry observed.

  “Who’d have thought either of the other two might have had one,” Lisa said, voice leaden with sarcasm.

  “All right, all right.”

  He shoved the gear stick into first and shot off, spinning the wheel and heading towards the double gates. They reached them and fired through and out onto the road. Its job done, Lisa stuffed the gun into Harry’s jacket pocket. Hands free again, she snatched at David Lin’s map.

  “Go right,” she said.

  “Where are we going?” Harry asked.

  “Hans. He’ll know what to do with the package.”

  “But …”

  He was about to argue when they both heard the noise of a car, invisible through the smog. Wherever it was, its engine was roaring, deep and throaty. It was moving at speed. Heading straight for them.

  Forty Six

  “We can’t outrun them in this,” Harry said. He put his foot down, pushing the car as fast as he dared in the filth-clogged air. A car shot out of the brown murk in front of him, going in the opposite direction. No one to worry about.

  He checked the rear-view mirror. Nothing yet. He guessed it was Miller that Wai had called, and there’d be no need for them to stop at the customs warehouse. They’d have been told the direction Harry turned in, so would be hard on his tail at any moment.

  “This isn’t going to work,” Harry said. “It’s miles into town. Where does Hans live, anyway?”

  Lisa was looking doubtful too. “In the centre unfortunately.”

  “In any case, the police will be watching him. They’d pick us up the moment we showed.” He saw her examining Wai’s mobile. “And it’s no good calling him either. We’ve got to assume his line’s tapped.”

  The mobile in Lisa’s hands burst into life. The screen lit up with a name. ‘Miller.’ She looked at Harry.

  “Why not?”

  Tentatively, she hit the green button and put the phone just close enough to her ear to catch whatever poison it was about to vomit. She held it with forefinger and thumb as if it was coated in rotting fish paste.