Quiller's Run

by Adam Hall

  Later the moon rose and the jungle held back a little, the shadows shifting as more lamps were rigged; the throb of the generator motors was constant, punctuated by the cries of birds and monkeys, restless and uneasy among the trees.

  By midnight we were shivering, and the jackets were passed round. The night had taken on the semblance of a slide-lecture without sound as consciousness took pictures, sometimes out of sequence: a man flicking away a half-dead snake with a bamboo stick; a Red Cross worker standing perfectly still with tears streaking the soot-film on his face; a panel breaking away and a body falling to the jungle floor, groaning as the air was forced from its lungs - to be surrounded at once by a dozen of us, but that, yes, was all it was; just the air in its lungs.

  By three in the morning we were working without any more pauses for breaks, because every time we took a rest we knew what we had to go back to, and it was easier to stay with it and get it over, though by now it seemed we’d been here all our lives, been born here just to do this, and would go on doing it, and never be done. Our eyes, fatigued and losing focus, had to keep on adjusting as someone moved a floodlight on its stand and the moon brightened and the landing lights of another helicopter flooded the scene and froze us in a silver-grey wash.

  Then I found Lafarge.

  He was flattened against a bulkhead that had been thrown thirty feet from the cabin section; his seat-belt had snapped and he’d been catapulted forward. It had taken an hour to clear the debris away from him and get a look at his face. I’d seen him at the airport and he was still recognizable, though his face was now ashen and his scalp had been ripped away. The briefcase was still chained to his wrist, and when I wiped the soot away I could see the initials D.J.L., heavily embossed in gold. His keys were in his pocket, and I tried the smallest of them first, opening the chain-lock and bringing the case away, the chain with it.

  Rattakul took me across to the chief of the Thai police unit and I signed the necessary form, undertaking to return the under-mentioned passenger’s personal effects, these being one leather briefcase and contents not herein identified.

  Then we picked our way, Rattakul and I, across the web of white wires and the lamp-cables and the torn tree-roots to where our small military helicopter was standing.

  ‘This is what you came for?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes.’

  It was all he said, and all I said. We were dog-tired, dirty and depressed, and my mind kept shifting focus - from the comfortable air-conditioned gate area where the nuns had gathered the young girl to them, her pale face upturned, and the Australian had gone running past me - Hey, Charlie, tell ‘em to wait! - shifting focus to the grey and shapeless grave that we were leaving behind us in the jungle night.

  As the machine lifted and the pilot opened his set and reported departure at 04.03, two thoughts came together in my mind. One was that Mariko Shoda hadn’t ordered Flight 306 destroyed, because Lafarge, the chief source of her arms supplies, had been on board. So it had been someone else, and they might have ordered the bomber to carry out his mission for the same reason: that Lafarge had been on board, and on his way to meet Shoda.

  So what worried me, as we headed south for Chathaburi, was that the briefcase that had been chained to Lafarge’s wrist was now chained to my own.

  CHAPTER 10

  VOICES

  ‘This side’s the Flight Data Recorder, which does pretty well what you’d think.’ The American wiped the bright orange casing with his soot-smudged handkerchief. His name was Bob Ryan. ‘It records the time, speed, heading and altitude of the airplane and every movement it makes - climb, descent, turns, gravitational forces, acceleration, stuff like that. This side’s the CVR - Cockpit Voice Recorder. It picks up from a mike in the flight-deck ceiling - every sound there is, radio speech and ordinary conversation between the crew.’ He glanced at me with his red-rimmed eyes; it was now gone six in the morning and we still hadn’t slept. Rattakul had talked to the chief analyst, a Thai, when we landed in Chathaburi, and arranged the meeting.

  I wanted to know whether the crash of Flight 306 had in fact been ‘drug-related’, as the analyst had said, or not. It wasn’t anything I could find out from the black box directly, but it might give me a lead.

  ‘The tapes run for thirty minutes,’ Rayn said, ‘and then erase themselves. That’s considered long enough to give us all we need to know about an accident situation. Often it’s much less, maybe a couple of minutes or even a couple of seconds, like when they hit a mountain in the fog.’ Sitting slumped in the tubular-frame chair, he reached for the box again. ‘Okay, we’ll just give it a whirl.’

  While we were listening I peeled off the Red Cross parka; there was no air-conditioning in the small cluttered office. Rattakul sat upright near the window with his hands on his lap, his eyes uneasy; on our way out of the jungle he’d told me he’d survived a major crash three years ago, and still had nightmares.

  Altitude 24,000. Airspeed 250 knots.

  Then there was some conversation in Thai, and I asked Ryan to give me anything important; he was fluent.

  We heard some laughter, and I looked at the American, but his eyes were closed; his head was forward and I thought he might be dozing off.

  Heading 347. Medium aircraft at nine o’clock, four miles, five to six thousand feet below.

  I looked at the map on the wall. Flight 306 was at that time fifty miles or so northwest of Chathaburi, on an almost direct course for Bangkok.

  Airspeed 250. We’re descending to There wasn’t a crump or anything but Ryan’s eyes came open. It had sounded more like a break in the transmission, but now there was muffled noise coming in and he started translating from the Thai as speech broke out.

  ‘That’s the captain, telling everyone to stay calm. Says there’s been an explosion and he’s going to try putting the ship down at the nearest alternate.’

  There was a jumble of sounds and then the flight-deck door clicked open and a woman’s voice came clearly.

  ‘She says there’s a hole blown in the cabin, oxygen masks are mostly in place, there’s not too much panic.’

  But we were listening to screams now, one of them a child’s. Then in accented English - There has been some kind of explosion in the rear section of the cabin. We are losing height, airspeed and directional capability. Please have Chathaburi give me a runway and — There was a break, then more voices in Thai, quick and urgent. The door was still open to the sounds coming from the main cabin. I glanced at Rattakul; he had his eyes shut now, squeezed shut.

  Eleven minutes after the explosion the jet’s altitude was only two thousand feet. Ryan was sitting upright, peeling the silver paper off a packet of chewing-gum, his eyes on the box.

  We are now out of control and starting to spin, a left spin A lot of noise came in and the loudest was the screaming, and I heard Ryan say fuck under his breath before he prodded the stick of gum between his teeth, his eyes never leaving the box.

  It is reported that fire has broken out in the rear section and we are sending extinguishers back there, but me — Sound of buffeting now, and a steady roaring in the background, probably the air-rush past the hole in the cabin wall. The screams went on and I thought of the little girl and the nuns and the Australian while the captain started talking again but now in his own tongue.

  ‘Says there isn’t anything more he can do,’ Ryan told us. There was sweat on his face, on all our faces. ‘Says they’re just going to -‘ then he broke off and stared at the box in silence for a while.

  I told Rattakul he could go outside if he wanted to, but he didn’t answer, maybe didn’t take it in.

  ‘Okay, he’s - they’re praying now, just praying and -‘ Ryan got out of his chair and stood with his hands dug into his belt, his body in a crouch. ‘Just doing that and asking to have messages sent to their mothers, Jesus Christ, it’s always -‘

  Then a lot of sound like drumming, drumming and creaking and buffeting, and a man’s voice in Thai.

&nbs
p; ‘He’s saying - Jesus, can you beat these guys - he’s telling the captain it’s been an honour to serve with him …’

  A lot of sound now, and I got up too and stood with my back to the box and began counting for some reason and got to nine before there was a break in the transmission and silence, total silence.

  It went on for a bit and then Ryan said in frustration, ‘I mean, I just don’t know how many times I’ve had to listen to that bullshit but it’s never any different, it still gets to you.’ He went across to the coffee percolator and busied himself, making a noise. ‘You guys ready for your caffeine shot?’

  Rattakul went out now, his face pale, and closed the door quietly, circumspectly.

  ‘The rest of it is,’ Ryan said, ‘we’ve started getting some stuff from the aviation toxicology lab.’ He looked for some papers on the desk near the silent box. ‘Case No. 5023, received by J. Mathieson from Dr. Lee Yu, samples; one bag of human bone, one container each of muscle and hair - I’ll have them give you copies of all this stuff as it comes in, okay?’ He dropped the sheet onto the desk and paced around the office, a cup in his hand. ‘Some of it’s always misleading, like we get a whole lot of heart-failures on this kind of trip, but often they’re not actual failures or even heart-attacks. When people know they don’t have a chance any more they produce tremendous tensions, and it just rips at the heart muscle and breaks it down. What I’m saying is, you shoot a guy in the back of the head and the autopsy doesn’t show any heart-failure, but these guys on the flight-deck can see it coming and they’ll build up so much tension in them that it kills. We’ve had control columns torn clean out by the roots, and captains with their arms broken by the force they used trying to get the nose of the ship up - it isn’t the contraction of the muscles that does that; it’s the amount of pretension in them. But I’m not an expert on this stuff -they could give you a more accurate picture at the tox. lab. But I doubt you’ll find that bomber died of what looked like heart-failure. Jesus, anyone who can board a plane and sit there waiting to get blown up with it had to have pretty good nerves.’ He drained his cup and took it over to the sink. ‘Do you think his motives were drug-related?” He swung his head up to look at me. ‘I’d say the only thing that isn’t drug-related in this whole area is the Salvation Army. And you know what that jet was carrying, don’t you? There’d been a slip-up somewhere along the line - no one ships poppy-milk from Singapore to Thailand - that’s the wrong way around.’

  ‘The name on the passenger list was Burmese.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to mean anything. In this area you get people who are Chinese-French-Cambodian, British-Malaysian-Indian, you name it. Shifting populations, adopted refugees, mixed blood from colonial times, that kind of thing, then there’s Singapore.’ He picked up his flight-bag, cupping a yawn. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m ready to crash. Jesus, what am I saying …” * ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Chathaburi Air Force Base, Thailand.’

  A tall steel mast flexing in the night-wind, 4 a.m., Cheltenham, six thousand miles away. I’d slept until noon.

  ‘Why did you miss the flight’”

  ‘I was warned off it.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I told him about the voice on the paging phone.

  ‘It could only have been the Thais.’

  ‘No. They’d have stopped the flight and made a search.’

  A young lieutenant came into the office, whistling. ‘Oh. Excuse me.’ He went out again.

  ‘What?’ I asked Pepperidge.

  ‘Then you’ve got friends out there.’

  ‘Not the kind I like.’

  ‘You mean the woman on the phone was involved?’

  ‘It points to it.’

  ‘What are you doing to find out who they are?’

  ‘Everything I can, but that’s not much. That stuff you sent,’ I said, ‘looks clean enough, but you wouldn’t be able to pick out a mole. Can’t trust the Thais totally. Or anyone. Why did you send it to me through the McCorkadale woman?’

  ‘Because she’s impeccable.’

  ‘Spell it out for me.’

  ‘Her father’s Sir George McCorkadale, the MP. She was at the Foreign Office for five years and she’s been in Singapore for three. The British High Commissioner speaks highly of her. Otherwise,’ he said tardy, ‘I wouldn’t have used her to pass the material.’

  ‘She sent me to a man called Chen, and he tipped me off to take that flight.’

  ‘I’ve done some homework on him, too. At the moment he’s in shock - the co-pilot on that plane was his best friend.’

  I didn’t say anything. I was thinking.

  ‘Does that help?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes. Quite a lot. I thought he was all right, and maybe he is.’ If Chen were totally secure I could use him again if things got tricky.

  ‘Did you find out anything from the wreck?’

  ‘Hold it a minute.’ There was an F11 taking off outside and the office became a membrane, filled with its power-scream. When quiet came back I told Pepperidge, ‘Quite a bit.’

  ‘What was in the briefcase?’

  ‘That’s not bad,’ I said.

  He sounded indignant again. ‘I don’t sleep when there’s work to do. I’ve been in signals with the Thais most of the night.’

  ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken. So what was in it?’

  ‘Copies of the blueprints for the Slingshot, including specifications, modifications, computerised performance figures and component manifest.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Dominic Lafarge was the Shoda organisation’s main armament source.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But why -‘

  ‘Who is General Dharmnoon?’

  There was another silence. He was doing a lot of thinking, which didn’t surprise me.

  ‘He’s Shoda’s chief army commander, in charge of all her splinter groups.’

  ‘There was a copy of a letter in the briefcase, written to Mariko Shoda. It said that Lafarge was “at present furthering arrangements for the acquisition of one hundred Slingshots, as outlined to General Dharmnoon.” That’s a quote.’

  I waited for him to do some more thinking, suddenly aware of the sharp smell of antiseptics, an itching under the left wrist, hunger. They’d changed the dressing for me at the base hospital, and I hadn’t eaten since the Red Cross had brought us the sandwiches at three o’clock this morning. Faint voices from outside, one of them an American’s.

  ‘They can’t buy them,’ Pepperidge said.

  ‘For acquisition read steal.’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll tell Laker Foundry to double the guard at the factory. And I don’t know why you’re so wary of Johnny Chen. This is a major breakthrough.’

  ‘Just that it crashed. I’ll get over it.’ The memory wasn’t ready to let go yet, that was all, the memory of the two voices, the one on the paging phone - There will be an accident, do you understand? - and the one on the radio three hours later - It has just been reported that a Thai International Airlines plane has come down in deep jungle north of Chathaburi. The names of the crew and passengers are being withheld until more information is available. One of the names on the passenger manifest had been Martin Jordan.

  ‘Yes,’ I heard Pepperidge saying, ‘I know how you must have felt.’ With hesitation he said, ‘They kept me up to date, you see, the Thais, so I knew you were down to take that flight, and when they signalled me that it had crashed I broke the rules and hit the Scotch for a while. All right now, stone cold sober. You understand, I suppose, that a hundred of those things would give Mariko Shoda complete control of all air movement up to thirty thousand feet, wherever she chose to deploy them? Just a hundred launchers, plus, say, ten missiles to each.’

  He was right. Major breakthrough.

  ‘It’s coming together,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed. And too bloody fast. I’ve got to go and get a
few people out of bed, do some phoning round London. Look, can you send me copies of that stuff in the briefcase?’

  ‘They’re on their way.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘The Thai Embassy in London. I did it from the air base here through Bangkok.’

  ‘First rate. I need to check them later with Laker for authenticity. Have you got anything else for me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, this is more than enough to get on with. Listen, old boy’ - hesitating again - ‘I ran into Fletcher yesterday.’ I waited. The only Fletcher he could mean was a high-echelon control at the Bureau. ‘I didn’t say where you were, of course, or what you’re doing. But they’d take you back, you know. Any time.’

  ‘No.’

  Once you’ve gone, we can never ask you back. That bastard Loman. Changed his tune.

  ‘They’d be pretty accommodating. They’d send you a director in the field, right away. Anyone you asked for. Even Ferris.’

  My God, what wouldn’t I give for Ferris…

  ‘They can’t touch it,’ I said. ‘You know that. They haven’t got-‘

  ‘Strictly under the table, of course.’

  ‘That’s where they put that fucking bomb.’

  In a moment he said ruefully, ‘Message understood. But I want to ask you something. When can you go to ground?’