Dragon Breath

by Valerie Goldsilk

  Echo One cocked his head and listened to the sound of the wind and the crackle of his earpiece.

  “Confirmed, we are Foxtrot Uniform Papah,” he whispered and his throat mike picked up the words, transmitting them to Control. The two burglars checked their watches. They knew the patrol would come by in two minutes and so far it had showed a complete lack of imagination, following the same route every twenty minutes.

  The ear piece said, “Tangos coming around the far end of the building, you’ll smell the smoke from their cigarettes.”

  Every good soldier knows that smoking is a dead giveaway when you’re on sentry duty, but these security guards were obviously just young kids, unaware that they were walking along in the sights of a high powered rifle. If they were lucky they would never know how close to death they had come that night. The Regiment had not gotten around to loading tranquilliser darts into its magazines.

  The two burglars were squatting in the shadows and the likelihood of being detected was slight. Echo Two slid the dive knife half an inch from its sheath. He’d never killed a man in this fashion but he’d worked in a slaughterhouse before he joined up and he was mentally prepared to slice the blade along either of the security guards’ jugulars. He knew the right technique was to keep on hacking until half the head came off. The mission couldn’t be compromised. It’s what they’d always been taught.

  They waited in tense immobility as the Shanghainese men chattered in their native tongue. Perhaps the guards were talking about football or some girls they hoped to meet later in the week. A minute later the moment had passed. All was silent again and the smell of cheap tobacco blew itself away.

  Echo One gave it some more time before he tapped his mate and they began to move forward. They levered open the window and slid into the factory building. The room was dark and there seemed to be nothing there except for the trestle tables and boxes stacked against the far wall.

  The two men pulled out their torches and cast around. They began work on the boxes. Their mission was to take swabs of everything so the lab in Hereford could make some analyses.

  * * * *

  He’d never seen Doris this tipsy before. Her eyes were glazed over and she kept on touching him as she was talking. They’d shared two flagons of hot saki and Jim had drunk a big bottle of Asahi.

  “You still haven’t explained to me why you just upped and left the office. That really wasn’t very fair,” he said.

  “I was only a temp. The office wasn’t going to collapse if I didn’t turn up to answer the phones,” she replied, her words slower and more studied than when she was sober.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “You mean you were upset because you wanted to have some fun with me and I was suddenly gone?”

  “I was getting to know and like you, dammit.”

  She stared hard at him, showing no response. “Is that really true, Jim Beauregard?”

  “Why should I be bullshitting?”

  “Blokes often do.”

  “Yes, they do,” he admitted.

  “And are you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you certain, Jim Beauregard?”

  “I am, okay. I liked you. I mean I like you. It was just getting a bit heavy with your super-racist cousin or whatever, attacking me outside the take-away and then trying to burn my house down.” He reached for the little cup of tepid rice wine and swigged it down in one gulp to prove his point.

  Her expression softened. “I’m so sorry about that. I know it was pretty heavy. It’s part of being Chinese. We are a complicated culture. There are so many rules and regulations which you Westerners can’t even start to understand.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “I know. There are things I’d like to talk to you about but I can’t. It’s simply too complicated and you’ll look at me as if I am crazy, if I start trying to explain.”

  “It’s up to you. Try me if you want.”

  “I can’t. It’s not really relevant, I think. As long as I know you have some feelings for me. That is very important these days.”

  Jim reached over and patted her on the hand. “You know I have a special place for you in my heart.” It could have sounded trite but with the Japanese alcohol blurring his perception they felt like the right words.

  She inclined her head and studied him for a short while, obviously pondering. Jim couldn’t be sure if she’d reached any conclusion but she stroked his hand back and her eyes seemed to glisten slightly. This was a complex girl. She had the burdens of her sex and her race to bear. Why couldn’t he just grab her now and drag her upstairs, ripping off every shred of her clothes and bury his face deep in the warmth of her skin? His inner eye filled with the image of ravishment. He took another glass of saki, hoping it would embolden him to make the right moves. And embolden her to submit to them.

  * * * *

  It was about time they came up with better quality cars, Foxcroft was thinking as he watched the crackling beat radio that lay on the dashboard. They were sitting in a weary beige Mitsubishi Lancer that had seen better days, and the upholstery smelt damp and mouldy.

  Topgun Ng, seconded to Foxcroft’s unit for the investigation, was reading the Apple Daily, squinting at the photograph of a road accident victim prominently displayed across the page and turning the paper side to side to get a better view of the injuries.

  “Ten more minutes,” Foxcroft said and began tapping a little beat of music on his thigh. They’d tracked down two more informants and finally came up with an address. A bit of surveillance and it became quickly obvious this was a place worth raiding, although given the nature of the men inside he’d chosen to call in the SDU.

  The Special Duties Unit team leader was a guy called Freddie because he bore an uncanny resemblance to the Nightmare of Elm street. He was one of three gwailo inspectors left in the “Flying Tigers.” Localisation was evident here as well. The former OC, a Superintendent who’d been with the Unit for fifteen years had fallen foul of some internal politics and was now in charge of Traffic New Territories. He wouldn’t be staying in the Force much longer, Foxcroft felt sure. He’d been seen drunk down in Wanchai far too often lately and there was talk of jobs for experienced bodyguards in Jakarta.

  Freddie had slouched into the briefing room in his baggy jeans and desert boots. He’d scratched at one of his zits with a mangled toothpick, then stuck it back into his mouth. With him was the team sergeant who had an enormous set of pectoral muscles that could only have been the result of heavy steroid abuse. The information was explained and then they waited for the expert’s opinion.

  “Well, we could come off the roof, I guess,” Freddie said, angling one of the photos against the fluorescent light. He had a strong Glaswegian accent. “What do you think, Sergie?”

  “Too far to abseil.”

  “It’s only ten metres.”

  The Sergeant flexed his pectorals and shook his head. “Too far,” he insisted.

  “Just up the stairs and knock on the door with stun grenades?”

  The Sergeant shrugged. He’d learnt how to look hard from the movies but he and his boss had a mutual respect that meant they’d listen to all of each others’ contrary opinions. Out of disagreement would come a plan.

  “We’d still have to rope down to cover the back exits. Look at this window here. Maybe we can come in through that.”

  The Sergeant shook his head. Maybe he didn’t have a head for heights. The two Anti-Terrorist squad leaders stood in silence, pondering and staring at the photos and the blueprints that lay on the large table.

  “Are they likely to have weapons, Foxie?”

  “Can’t be ruled out.”

  “Nothing heavy, like AK’s though?”

  “Unlikely, maybe a few PLA issue handguns.”

  “We’ll be all right with regular vests then. The ammunition they get these days is crap. I suppose we can just kick the door down and smoke them into confusion?”
/>   “Whatever you say, Freddie.”

  Now Foxcroft and Topgun were waiting in the next street for the action to start. In the back of the car sat two more Detective Constables. Any passers-by looking through the windows would assume they were either Triads waiting for a rumble or coppers waiting for an arrest. It’s why Foxcroft had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

  “Why does this second hand move so fucking slowly?” The Detective Chief Inspector said, jabbing at the crystal of his Tag Heuer, but nobody replied because they knew the boss was just talking to himself. One of the guys in the rear slowly stroked the butt of his Colt Detective as it stuck out from under his red Polo shirt. It was practically a sexual gesture.

  Foxcroft didn’t expect much fireworks. He thought the men in the hideout wouldn’t put up any resistance but by using the SDU he was being safe instead of sorry. No point in taking risks, and men like Freddie enjoyed swinging into action. As it was they spent more time training than really working.

  “Okay, we’re in position. Do we have okay for Go—over?” the Glaswegian accent came across the air.

  Foxcroft checked his watch and shrugged. Now was as good as anytime.

  “You have the okay for Go. Repeat, I say Go—over.”

  “Roger to that. Here goes. Better remember the safety catch, Sergie, eh?”

  The radio went dead and the next few seconds Foxcroft and his team strained their ears for the sound of semi-automatic gunfire.

  * * * *

  Bill Jedburgh surfaced from his scuba dive, pulled off his fins and started wading up the beach where some people he recognised were sitting in deck chairs.

  “Good dive?” Julian McAlistair asked from his reclining position. There was a bottle of imported beer in one hand and a half-smoked Havana in the other.

  Bill said, “You should throw away that old Apeks you use and go ScubaPro. I’m impressed.” He pointed at the regulator set he’d been testing underwater.

  “I like to buy British.”

  “Not anymore—Aqualung bought them out. American now,” Bill commented, laughing while shrugging out of his rig and dumping it all in the sand. Later he’d rinse everything with fresh water.

  McAlistair, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts that didn’t hide the fact that he worked out regularly, said, “You remember Theo Scrimple. Found him mooching around Pattaya town.”

  “Scrimple, good to see you again,” Bill said and shook the policeman’s hand. Then he winked at the girl who was occupying the third deckchair. He couldn’t see her eyes behind the large Armani sunglasses but there wasn’t much else of her body she was hiding. The white swim suit was as skimpy as they come.

  “Guests, sweetie. Are you going to cook tonight?”

  The girl, lowered her shades with deliberation. Looking over the top, she frowned at Bill who stood over her in his dripping Henderson wetsuit. “You crazy or what?” she replied.

  Bill smirked. “There you go, gentlemen. What every hillbilly in the American Mid-West and every unemployed steelworker from Sheffield has wet dreams about. The submissive Asian female!” He reached into the cooler box that stood by Julian’s feet, took out a beer, closed the lid again and sat down on it. He ran a hand through his close-cropped, dark brown hair, squeezing the wetness from it.

  “So, Scrimple, long or short leave?”

  The Hong Kong copper shrugged dismissively and looked at the other two men, both former colleagues who had managed to get out and move on with their lives. As far as he knew they were both practically retired, although Bill still had some business as a security consultant based on his experience in the Special Duties Unit and VIP Protection Team of the RHKP.

  “I’m getting ready to leave the Force, just handed in my resignation,” Scrimple said.

  “Good on you. Everyone will have to leave sooner or later. It makes the masters in Beijing nervous to still see remnants of the old colonials like us floating about.”

  “It’s just a different style of working, that’s all,” McAlistair commented. “It’s no longer a colony so they no longer have a role for the colonial policeman. What they want is smart, sharp young Chinese fellows who want to do good for their community and be respected by their families.” He took a swig from his bottle.

  “You sound like a recruitment brochure,” Bill Jedburgh told him.

  “Let them run their own country, we’re well out of it.” He waved a hand to indicate the perfect beach and the glorious sea.

  “What do you reckon, Scrimple?”

  “I should have done what you guys did years ago.”

  “What? Found a rich wife and do nothing but drink beer and put your feet up all day?” Jedburgh said lightly. McAlistair shrugged and smiled; he couldn’t argue with the facts. He kept himself busy supervising the servants, driving his fleet of foreign cars and lifting weights in an exclusive gym.

  Scrimple said, “Something like that. I’ve just been treading water for the last few years and I’ve only just realised it.”

  “Good on you, mate. Have you got anything lined up?” Jedburgh asked.

  “Not yet. It’s early days. Thought I chill out, get pissed and do some serious thinking,” the copper said.

  “Don’t forget the whoring. You can’t think clearly if you have too much pressure building up in the testicles,” said McAlistair.

  “Good point,”

  “Why don’t we go into town and have dinner at New Orleans? The ribs are great there.”

  “I don’t know about that place. It’s suspiciously close to ‘Boystown,’” McAlistair commented.

  “Since when were you such a homophobe?”

  “I just wanted to point out that we’ll be fighting our way through mincing poofters in order to enjoy those excellent ribs.”

  “Shut the fuck up, you idle prick,” Bill said, shaking his head. He glared at McAlistair who just smiled back because insults held no malice between friends.

  They had a few more beers, then picked up the deck chairs and diving gear and trudged back up the beach to the house. It was built with dark teak wood and the design was similar to the traditional Ayudhaya style. The covered terrace—a nice place to sit during the rainy season when it belted down for hours at a time—led to floor to ceiling sliding French windows opening onto the living room. Here the furniture was mostly heavy leather club-style with sturdy wooden bookshelves and tables, and the room would have been solidly gloomy if it hadn’t been for the strategic, indirect lighting. Bill liked it this way although his girl complained there might be ghosts hiding in the dark corners.

  Scrimple and McAlistair had a few more drinks, idly watching BBC on the wide-screen TV until Bill had showered and put his cleaned dive kit away.

  At eight fifteen, as they were about to walk out the door, the phone rang and Bill answered.

  “Hey, you old bong bastard. You’re in town?… I don’t suppose you’re here for R and R. I’m busy, yes, but you can come along and meet us for dinner.”

  When he put the phone down he said, “Can’t get away from them. Once they have their claws in your flesh…”

  “Brigadier Wee?” McAlistair asked.

  “His Number One boy.”

  “Hey, it’s money.”

  “They never pay enough. They’re Chinese, remember.”

  “But the better kind.”

  Bill nodded grimly. “He’d be a great bloke if deep down he wasn’t such a fucking manipulative cunt.”

  “I’m hungry, okay. Let’s move.”

  Chapter 18

  “Well, damn it, when am I going to get the information then?” Margaret Rose yelled down the phone.

  “We’re not finished yet,” the man in Hereford told her quietly.

  “Bullshit!”

  “Ms. Rose, the lab is working as we speak. Your impatience isn’t going to make them work any faster.”

  “I want to know what was found during the raid.”

  “A few more hours, Madam.”

  “What is your n
ame again?”

  “Sergeant-Major Grimshaw. And I’ll be in touch as soon as we have some results.”

  “Okay, you’ve got me there, Grimshaw.” She mellowed her voice. “You do appreciate that I’m a bit impatient about this issue.”

  “We can’t hurry the lab, Ms. Rose,” he said evenly. “They’re professionals, as are you and I.”

  She felt the tension ebbing slightly. This fellow knew how to handle bitches like her. She had to admit it. She chuckled down the line. “Grimshaw, you’re a slick old bugger. Now make sure you call my mobile phone as soon as you have something for me.”

  “You can count on me, madam,” the wily Warrant Officer said. “We’re all on the same team and it’s not as if they’re skiving off at the pub or something.”

  “I know that, Grimshaw, but this could turn into a national emergency.”

  “Those are the ones the Regiment is best trained to handle, ma’am.”

  Cheeky bugger.

  Margaret went back to her files and laptop and smoked five cigarettes while glancing repeatedly at her Motorola. But it didn’t finally ring until two hours later.

  She listened for a while and asked a few questions. Her face tensed up and she pushed the ashtray around on her desk. She gave the Sergeant-Major her fax number and a minute later the papers with the test results started coming through. Once she’d glanced at them a few more times and assured herself that the information was verified she reached for the phone again and hit the speed dial connecting her with LeBailly’s direct line.

  “I’m afraid it’s rather worrying news, sir. Somebody’s been making little nuclear devices in that factory in Shanghai. The Geiger counters went berserk.”

  “Are you sure its explosives, Margaret? Maybe they were making commercial lasers or something that gives similar readings?”

  “Wishful thinking, sir. The technicians at Hereford give an unequivocal analysis. I quote: ‘It is advised that immediate action is discussed to deal with this potential threat to the United Kingdom and friendly nations.’”

  “That’s a bit pushy from the soldiers,” her boss said.