by A. R. Zander
- Chapter 37 -
Velvet
The deepest depths of the Wan Chai district seemed the safest placed to be with the police combing the city looking out for their faces. You could hide in an area like this for months, even years, and sometimes a whole lifetime and plenty of men did. The girls gave up on Russell after he smiled politely and refused a second advance. They clustered around the bar, looking expectantly towards the door for more customers, but it was still too early in the day. An Asian man and a few American office workers were scattered around the bar watching the stripper slither around the pole in a fluorescent mini-skirt. Cohen stopped to buy a round of drinks for the girls as he walked back in from the street.
“Friendly?” said Russell.
“Very friendly,” replied Cohen.
“How much do you reckon?”
“I didn’t ask,” said Cohen, taking a sip of his coffee.
“You know it doesn’t seem as seedy out here. It’s all sort of, out in the open, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“Did you speak to Morton?”
“Yeah, I managed to get him at home, but he was pretty jumpy. Gave me the number of a phone box and told me to call him back.”
A new girl came through the side door and made a beeline for their table. She hopped onto Russell’s lap and giggled, rubbing herself against him. He laughed nervously and managed to untangle her arms from around his neck, lightly ushering her off in the direction of another customer.
“Anyway,” continued Cohen. “Harper’s been in touch with him. He wants us to meet him, tonight, on the last ferry to Macau.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No. That was it.”
The stripper came to the end of her act and stood naked for a few seconds on the stage, her arms outstretched and her palms facing upwards, accepting the sparse applause. She gathered her clothes and walked off through a curtain, immediately replaced by one of the girls from the bar.
“What did he say about the suspension,” asked Russell.
“It’s true. We’ve been relieved of duty.”
“Morton too?”
“Yeah.”
Russell rubbed the underside of his chin. “So they want us to come back?”
“Yeah, Morton is in hot water, but as far as they’re concerned, we were just following orders, so if we go back, we’re off the hook.”
“What do you want to do?”
The barman came over with another coffee and a bottle of Singha beer. Cohen ripped open a packet of sugar and poured it into the cup. “Well, it takes time to arrange a flight. I’d say it’s unreasonable to expect us to fly back before, well, at the earliest, tomorrow morning.”
“Just in time for a small trip to Macau then?”
“I don’t see why not.”
- Chapter 38 -
Macau
The black Mercedes parked up opposite the terminal. The smell of saltwater crept through the vents. Varndon and Ashansky sat in the back, watching the passengers file in and out. The red ferry sat docked in the harbour, its engines running slowly, spewing out a steady stream of white water. Four of Ashansky’s men, dressed in business suits, walked past them and headed towards the entrance.
“Where are they going to be?” said Varndon.
“They’ll be close,” replied Ashansky.
“And if Harper spots them?”
“He won’t. They’re professionals.”
“So is he. Have you heard from Gershov?”
“He’s sweeping the terminal. If Harper’s planning on bringing any back-up, he’ll sniff them out.”
The flow of passengers started to increase. Varndon leaned forward. “We’re going to have to leave or we’ll miss it.”
Ashansky looked at his phone. “Okay, let’s move.”
They crossed the road into the terminal and fell in behind a crowd of revellers. The ferry had two decks. Varndon looked around for any sign of Harper and Vitsin. Ashansky nodded to the far corner of the lower deck. Gershov sat with a coat on his lap. Opposite him were Cohen and Russell. The barrels of two pistols jutted out slightly from under the coat.
“Looks like he’s on his own now,” said Ashansky. Gershov nodded his head towards the upper deck, pointing them in the direction of Harper and Vitsin. The automatic door clicked and closed behind them as the engines kicked into gear, propelling the boat forward. Ashansky followed Varndon to the front of the ferry and up to the second level. The deck had space for around 150, but was only half full. A noisy group of high school kids shouted at each other across the middle aisle and some English partygoers laughed, downing cheap bottles of Japanese beer.
“There they are,” said Ashansky, pointing at the other end of the boat. His men were sat nearby, reading newspapers, blending in with the crowd. They walked down the aisle, taking in the passengers, mindful of any trap. Vitsin watched them approach, while Harper looked out of the window.
“May we join you,” said Varndon, sitting down. Ashansky’s eyes bored into Harper’s and Varndon kept a covetous watch on Vitsin.
“Your friends from London won’t be joining us,” said Ashansky. Varndon wiped some steam from the window and looked outside. “I have to say I expected more from you. It’s a shame.”
“Look at him,” said Ashansky. “Little Mishka is out of ideas.”
Varndon raised his hand to let Harper speak.
“Can we talk alone?” Harper said, looking at Varndon.
“Of course. Let’s go out on the deck.”
Ashansky looked on suspiciously as Varndon followed Harper through a side door and out into the open air. The boat skipped along the water past a rusty barge. They walked to the back of the deck and leant on the plastic railings.
“You can have Vitsin,” said Harper. “He’s not my concern.”
“I know we can,” replied Varndon. “It’s definitely not your concern.”
“I want an assurance that neither you nor Ashansky will come after me once we step off this boat.”
Varndon laughed. “And why would I give you that?”
“To buy my silence.”
“Your silence? Your silence on what exactly?”
“On what I saw in Almaty. On everything.”
“I think you’ve lost it completely.” Varndon leaned in closer to Harper. “I know all about your therapist visits. I know about the booze problems, the drugs, the nightmares.”
“Is that right?”
Varndon produced a piece of paper from his trouser pocket and started to read aloud: “Patient has experienced severe panic attacks and anxiety. Post-traumatic stress a distinct possibility. Patient’s tendency to downplay symptoms must be discouraged. Fitness for continued employment questionable.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“We know everything about you Harper. You think I’d turn up here without knowing what makes you tick?”
“I suppose not.”
“Whatever you had planned with those dull-witted friends of yours downstairs is over. And you’re over. Vitsin belongs to me now…and you belong to them.”
Ashansky and one of his men walked out onto the deck. Varndon walked away and ducked back inside the door. “You were very convincing you know,” said Ashansky. “I never once suspected you were a pig, despite Gershov’s warnings.”
Harper said nothing.
“And Ksenia really loved you. But she is broken now. You left my beautiful daughter broken.”
Harper straightened his stance and looked at Ashansky. “I’d be more willing to listen to a lesson in morality from someone without so much blood on his hands.”
“You want to talk about killing? Well, that’s something you know all about little Mishka.” Harper looked towards Ashansky’s man, who was pointing a gun towards his chest.
“What? You want to try something? Go ahead. It will save me the hassle. We can just dump you in this fucking water right now.”
Harper put his hands in his pockets.
“No? I thought not.”
They pushed him back towards the door. Several guns were pointing in his direction when they got back inside.
“Now I hope you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid for the rest of the journey,” said Varndon. “We could do without any nastiness with all these people around.” Harper looked at Vitsin. He was concentrating on the floor and fidgeting with the zip on his jacket. He stayed that way until the ferry began to slow on the approach to Macau. The boat edged sideways into the terminal, coming to a stop next to a raised wooden platform. Ashansky’s men flanked the group as they made their way downstairs and Gershov herded Russell and Cohen alongside Harper.
“Good party,” said Russell. “Thanks for the invite.”
“Care to tell us what the hell’s going on?” said Cohen, stepping out onto the gangplank. Harper ignored them and walked ahead. A line of vans waited in the empty car park with more of Ashansky’s men inside.
“Why don’t you let them go?” said Harper, pointing at Cohen and Russell. “It’s not them you want, it’s me.”
“You know what I want?” said Ashasnky. “I want all my enemies dead. And that includes them.”
“It’s good that you think about your enemies,” said Harper. “Some people can get complacent in that respect. Forget who they’ve wronged.”
“What are you talking about?”
Harper stopped. “Do you remember Northern Ireland Leonid?”
“Of course I remember.”
“Do you ever think what those guns you supplied were used for?”
“Who gives a shit.”
“The IRA gives a shit.”
“Yeah? Fuck the IRA.”
“I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you.”
A whistling sound shot through the air followed by a small thud. As the group looked around for the origin, a second bullet hit Gershov’s face and he dropped to his knees and crashed to the floor. A flurry of sniper fire filled the air and Ashansky’s men reached desperately for their guns. Harper grabbed Cohen and Russell and ran back towards the boat, taking cover behind a concrete pillar. They watched as Ashansky’s men dropped to the floor like dominoes. The men in the vans returned fire towards a building on the opposite side of the street, but their potshots bounced back off the brick.
“Get back,” said Harper, grabbing Cohen’s coat and pulling them towards the terminal. “And get your heads down.”
An explosion ripped through the vehicles, sending shards of metal hurtling through the air. Half of one of the vans crashed back down onto the road and scattered flames across the car park. Harper raised his head and saw Ashansky slumped on the floor, crawling towards them, his trousers soaked in blood from a bullet wound to the leg. A man with a shock of blonde hair was approaching him from behind, a pistol with a silencer in his left hand. Ashansky crawled faster, looking towards them, terror in his eyes. He stopped moving as the barrel of the gun pressed against his temple.
“Mishhhkkaaaaaaaa!” The bullet hit his skull and his face hit the concrete. The gunman nodded to Harper and ran back towards the road, jumping into a getaway vehicle and speeding away from the terminal.
“Come on, let’s move,” said Russell.
“Wait,” said Harper. “Where’s Vitsin? Where’s Varndon?”
They looked amongst the carnage. Plumes of heavy, black smoke billowed out from the vans and into the air. Both were gone.
“We have to go,” said Cohen. “Come on.”
“We can’t leave without Vitsin.”
“Forget Vitsin,” shouted Russell. “Let’s get out of here.”
Harper looked across the wreckage, but there was no sign of Vitsin’s slight frame. Cohen grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the road. The three of them ran across the road, jumped a barrier and headed under a small bridge. A security guard shouted at them in Mandarin from a nearby building. They quickened their pace, jogging along a flyover and climbing down some metal steps into a coach park below. The screech of sirens got closer as they listened to hordes of police cars making their way to the terminal.
“So I suppose we played a part in that trap?” said Cohen.
“I needed you there so they’d let their guard down,” said Harper. “I’m sorry, but there was no other way.”
They broke into a sprint as the sirens got louder behind them. Passengers were disembarking their coaches and wandering towards the chaos and hardly noticed the three westerners running in the opposite direction. Harper and Cohen slowed up as Russell started to drop behind. They walked across the road towards the water, trying to act as natural as possible.
“The Irishmen are friends of yours then are they?” said Cohen.
“I wouldn’t say friends,” said Harper. “We had a mutual interest.”
“Shush,” said Russell. “What’s that?” They all stopped walking and looked around.
“What’s what?” said Harper.
“It sounds like a big fan.”
They listened closer, shuffling out into the middle of the empty road. A flash of light lit up the gloom as the helicopter’s spotlight bathed them in a yellow glow. Police cars screeched round the corners from both directions and skidded to a stop beside them.
“Put your hands up,” said Harper.
- Chapter 39 -
Home
The urban sprawl of West London appeared as the plane broke through the clouds and descended on Heathrow. Harper twisted his wrists to relieve the chafe from the handcuffs while the Hong Kong detectives sitting either side of him maintained their watch. His mind raced, making it hard to concentrate on any one thing. Cohen and Russell were on the opposite side of the closed-off business class section, flanked by more police. The plane bounced a little as the wheels touched down on the runway, jerking everyone forwards.
“Welcome to London Heathrow. Local time is….”
They sat while the economy passengers exchanged pleasantries with the air stewardesses and filed out. Harper sucked in a deep lungful of chilly London air as they walked out onto the top of the steps. It was good to be home, even with the prospect of a jail cell hanging over him. The other passengers had been herded onto a bus and were heading to the terminal.
“So?” said Harper to the detectives as they stood on the tarmac. They ignored him and looked over towards the main building. Two police cars and an unmarked Ford were making their way towards them. The vehicles parked up next to the plane and Harper recognized the familiar figure of Deputy Commissioner Bailey step out of the first marked car. She spoke briefly with the senior Hong Kong detective and Cohen and Russell were put in the back seats, still in handcuffs. Bailey pointed at Harper and then to the Ford.
“What, no hello?” he shouted towards Bailey. The Deputy Commissioner paused briefly, shook her head and climbed back inside the car. Harper felt a shove in his back. One of the Hong Kong detectives pushed his head down and bundled him into the back seat of the Ford, closing the door behind him. There were three men in the car and two of them were pointing guns at him.
“You move and we shoot,” said the man next to him. “You say anything out of turn and we shoot. You breathe a bit too fucking heavily and we shoot. Got it?”
Harper nodded his head. They raced away from the terminal, past a disused runway and onto a service road. A black plane loomed large up ahead, orange lights flashing from its dark underbelly. They pulled Harper out of the car and pushed him up the steps. A blue light soaked the military interior. They took him to the back of the plane, strapped him down to one of the seats and put a black hood over his head. He thrashed his head from side to side as he felt his breath blocked by the material. His hands and feet started to throb as the straps slowed the blood supply. The noise from the engines increased and the plane rumbled backwards for a few minutes before coming to a halt. The vibrations shook his body as they shot forwards and lifted off the concrete. His pulse raced and his thoughts darkened as a hi
nt of claustrophobia took hold of him. The urge to get off the plane hit him and his breaths started to come out in short bursts. The plane rose higher into the sky and leveled off. When the bag was snatched off his head, the blue light had been dimmed to practically nothing. His eyes searched around for something to focus on, but there was only nothingness. A voice came out of the darkness, quiet at first. Harper listened closer, trying to make out some of the words. “…you’re mine now.” The man moved his face into the remnants of the blue light, showing himself for a few seconds.
“Varndon…”
- Chapter 40 -
Square One
The National Liberal Club sat camouflaged in the London grandeur. Alpha walked up the steps and greeted Connelly on reception. He handed him his coat and umbrella and made his way up the winding staircase. The smell reminded him of the Service in the old days, clubs and lunches, fewer women around and no need for the illusion of transparency that has infected modern government.
“The Foreign Secretary is outside sir,” said the waiter as he walked into the bar. Alpha ordered a coffee and made his way onto the empty balcony. The sunlight shone on the Thames, but failed to make a dent in the murk. Worthing sat at the far end. His hair was slightly damp and a black gym bag sat next to his chair. His red socks shone out from beneath the table.
“Foreign Secretary.”
“John, good to see you. Do sit down.” The waiter set Alpha’s coffee down on the table and placed a menu alongside.
“Do you fancy a bite?” said Worthing.
“I’ll pass. The coffee will suffice.”
“I think I’ll have the lemon chicken. I’m famished.” The barman took the menu and disappeared back inside.
“Have you spoken to the PM?” said Alpha, feigning nonchalance.
“Yes. He’s asked me to pass on his compliments on the Vitsin operation. Everyone is very pleased. Apart from the Chinese of course.”
“The Chinese are never happy.”
