Dragon Breath

by Valerie Goldsilk

  “Nothing… Don’t you understand?”

  “No, really the wrong answer.” Bill looked around and winked at Scrimple who was listening with fascination. Julian was producing a few more cans of beer from his bag as well as a water-tight Pelican box.

  “Now, my friend here,” Bill went on, “he used to be with the Royal Hong Kong Police. In the good old days, before your motherland took over and purged the place of all horrid colonial influences. And he learnt a few things about interrogation while in the force.” Bill stepped back to let Julian get closer to their captive. “One of the most important things he learnt was that it’s important to inflict pain without leaving any nasty marks. We didn’t like allegations of police brutality on our records. But how else can you get a hard Triad red-pole to admit chopping someone and have him in tears ready to sign a confession? You’ve got to inflict a bit of pain. There’s no other way.”

  With these words Julian tossed a bucket of cold water over Henry Chan, who yelled in terror from behind his hood.

  “Now this is the part I really hate,” Julian said as he reached forward, undid Chan’s belt buckle and yanked trousers and pants down so they bunched around his ankles.

  “What are you doing?” the Chinese man yelped.

  “You’ll enjoy this. The Japanese learnt this from the Germans during the Second World War.” Julian squatted down, opened the waterproof Pelican case and took out two sets of clamps which looked like smaller versions of the jump-leads one gets in a car. Part of each clamp was foam coated but there was enough exposed metal to provide the conductivity which made them effective. Julian clipped one clamp to each testicle and nodded at Bill.

  “Ready to rock, old boy. Or was it shock?” he said.

  Chan shouted, “You can’t do this. I offer you two million dollars.”

  “We don’t want any money,” Bill said, “we’ve got plenty of that already. We want the truth. The truth which is, as we all know, rarely pure and never simple.”

  * * * *

  The Cherokee coasted to a halt as McHardy brought it over to the side of the road.

  “What the hell is this place?” Marco asked from the passenger seat.

  “No idea. Some sort of a factory or warehouse.”

  “No lights. Are they going to do him?”

  “Could be but I guess that’s not the main purpose of the operation,” said McHardy, leaning forward to stare into the night through the windscreen while he fingered the butt of his Ruger pistol.

  Marco held an Uzi sub-machine gun on his lap and McHardy knew there was a Glock in a shoulder holster under the jacket. He’d met up with the South African, who’d been keeping an eye on Henry Chan most of the day, outside the Chinese restaurant. While Marco was explaining what had gone wrong with the timing of the plane bombing McHardy had been astonished to see a team of masked men leap out of a car, run into the restaurant and then drag a dazed Henry Chan back out again.

  It had only taken half a second to decide to follow them. McHardy had a personal interest in the Chinese businessman and strangers kidnapping him was not part of his plan. McHardy wanted to speak with Chan and find out what had soured their long-standing commercial arrangements. He thought back to several years ago when a chance introduction had brought about a lucrative shipping arrangement. Chan had the contacts for drugs and arms in China which found their way via Vietnam or Cambodia into McHardy’s sphere of influence. He managed to keep the shipments simple and used the cover of McPherson Ferguson’s standard activities to expedite the illegal goods.

  At some point Chan introduced him to Bob Chen, a slick Hong Kong trader and within a short time McHardy had arranged for Bob to be interviewed and offered the General Manager’s post in the Hong Kong McPherson Ferguson office. Between the two of them they could control a wide span of shipping activity. But Bob had suffered from the arrogance of his race, both underestimating the sensitivities of others in the company and overestimating his ability to keep a tight control on the process. Then finally he’d become too greedy. Or that was what McHardy assumed. Bob Chen must have started doing his own deals or put the squeeze on someone more powerful, probably even Henry Chan himself.

  “So what we gonna do?” Marco asked in a low voice.

  “Wait for a while. See if anything happens.”

  “You’d better hope they don’t do him. Then you won’t be able to ask your questions.”

  “Not a big loss. I know he decided I’d outlasted my usefulness and sent that rag-head after me. But I want to find out how many other people know about our business relationship.”

  Marco made a noise deep down in his throat. “He doesn’t know about me, does he?”

  “No, the airport job was strictly between us.” There was an awkward silence between them for a few moments. Marco looked at the American and said, “Listen, friend. I’m bloody sorry that the fucking cleaner gave the signal early and the Chinese Premier was nowhere near the plane.”

  “I know Marco. The best laid plans… It might turn out a good thing. These guys don’t deserve whatever they were hoping to start by killing Jiang Jemin.”

  “We’ll do a better job next time.”

  “The girl, you know, they found her strangled in her apartment. Probably the same rag-head with his handkerchief.”

  Marco said, “That’s a shame, that’s a real shame. I liked her. She was so warm and innocent. Whoever thought she could do a job gathering intelligence… I’m sorry we set her up for it.” He cleared his throat again which was the closest he got to an emotional act. “I really liked that poor little bitch.”

  “There’ll be others, man.”

  “Now what about this place?” Marco said impatiently.

  “Cool it. You saw them. They look fit and they look like professionals and they were armed.”

  “Yeah, but only handguns.” Marco patted the Israeli weapon which could fire devastating bursts of nine millimetre rounds.

  * * * *

  Scrimple was sitting back on his chair and had already consumed three cans of beer while the interrogation unfolded.

  Once Julian had attached the electrode clamps he waited for Bill’s signal then gave the red dial in the Pelican box a languid twist. Henry Chan screamed fiercely for ten seconds and Julian gradually brought the dial back to zero.

  “That was just a tiny warning shock, shall we say,” Bill whispered into the side of the hood. “Don’t you love the foam covering? No marks on the body. Although frankly I’m not that bothered with leaving any marks. In fact, Henry, if the shock treatment won’t get you to understand the difference between truth and bullshit, our other colleague here has a pair of garden shears with which he’ll cut off your little finger. Maybe even your little man, come to think of it.”

  There was a groan of despair from the hooded Chan.

  “Right so where were we? You and some other fellows have been planning something involving shipping explosives to the US and Europe. And now how does the story go on…”

  Bill indicated to Julian who gradually turned the red knob again until the electricity and the pain hit their captive. The scream lasted fifteen seconds this time.

  “I’m just going to take a leak, Henry and when I’m back we’ll carry on. So you have two minutes to get your words in order.”

  While Bill wandered off, Julian came back to the table and reached for the last segment of his sandwich.

  “Damn good cheddar this,” he said. “Mr. White, will you toss another bucket of water over him?”

  The policeman stood up and filled the bucket from a cold tap at the wall. He carried it back and heaved it over the handcuffed Chinese man.

  “Have to be sure he remains conducive to our discussions,” Julian said with a smirk. From out of his rucksack he produced a standard set of garden shears and worked them together a few times making a cold, snipping sound as the blades rubbed against each other.

  Scrimple said, “Fuck me. I thought he was just kidding.”

  “O
ur Mr. Black doesn’t kid when he’s on a job. What do you think of this little machine? Ten hour battery life and enough amps to electrocute a grown cow if you crank it right up. Don’t you wish you could have had one of these in the Interview rooms when you were working CID?” Julian walked over to Henry Chan’s head and worked the garden shears a number of times so the captive could hear the ominous scissoring sound.

  “How long is this going to go on for?” Scrimple asked.

  “It’s up to him, our fellow here. He can make it long or he can make it short. Snip, snip,” Julian grinned maliciously. “Could be a few hours, could be a few days. There’s plenty more sandwiches where they came from but bugger all noodles for Henry here.”

  Bill was back and hearing the conversation said, “I’ve rented the place for two weeks so nobody will be bothering us.” He winked at Julian, pulled over one of the wooden chairs and turned it around, sitting down with his arms across the top of the backrest.

  “I’m all ears, Henry. Which judging by these garden shears lying here, you may not be if you keep on being so reticent.”

  It took another twenty-five minutes before the Chinese man cracked, urine running down his spindly legs and tears tingeing his broken voice as he pleaded for mercy and tried to explain what had been happening.

  Scrimple operated the digital recording device while Julian made rapid notes in a unique shorthand. Bill maintained the pressure with gruff, prodding remarks or questions.

  It was when they were nearly finished and Henry Chan kept on pleading that he had nothing more to add that he begged them for mercy, that he wanted the hood removed, as he began whimpering and crying instead of talking, when suddenly an unknown voice broke in on them from the far side of the big room:

  “That’s a terrible way to treat an old Chinese man.”

  Scrimple glanced around in shock. He tried to reach for the revolver he’d been carrying but it lay at the other end of the table. Instead, instinctively, he slid the small Sony recorder into his pocket. Standing about fifteen metres away was a man whom he recognised as John McHardy, and in his hand was a big black automatic. Beside him was a well-built, handsome younger white guy with a crew-cut, cradling a sub-machine gun.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Julian demanded.

  “Easy now. No sudden movements,” McHardy growled, “Marco here has the Uzi and you are all within the killing zone.”

  “If he loosens off with that, Chan’ll get it as well,” Bill said levelly. He’d stood up from his chair and raised his hands to show himself unarmed.

  “We’re not too bothered about that. But I’d prefer he stays alive. We have some unfinished business discussions.”

  Bill said, “Are we on the same side perhaps?”

  “Well, sir. Not really. We are on our side and there’s nobody else on this team. But whose side are you on anyway?”

  “We’re the good guys,” Bill said. “We’re on the side of making sure stuff doesn’t get out of hand.”

  “You don’t look like any good guys that I’ve ever seen in the movies,” said McHardy advancing a few steps while keeping his gun trained specially on Bill. “Hooding an old man, handcuffing him, attaching electrodes to his prick. What kind of way to save the world is that?”

  Bill laughed gruffly. “The standard way except we try and keep it out of the papers.”

  McHardy smiled tightly. Marco moved sideways a bit so he had Julian and Scrimple nicely covered. “Now here’s the deal, gentlemen. I can hear you all are Brits and I assume you’ve got something to do with Intelligence. That implies you’re not stupid, senseless fucks, right?” McHardy said.

  Bill nodded carefully.

  The American went on, “We have no fight with you guys. We want to take Henry Chan here and we want to slip away nice and quietly. If we all agree on that there’s no need for any violence.”

  Bill considered this for a while. “What are you going to do with him?”

  “No worse than whatever you had planned.”

  “Will you release him?”

  McHardy didn’t say a word. He just moved his head slowly from side to side, his mouth a tight line in a hard face. After a while he said loudly so that Henry Chan could hear, “Maybe, if he tells me what I want to know.”

  The tension hung in the air for a while. Scrimple fought hard to avoid staring at his revolver. He had a strong desire to throw himself forward and grab the weapon but knew it was a stupid thought. The two guys might be bluffing and once they had freed Henry Chan, the Uzi might still open up bringing Scrimple’s senseless life to a sudden end but it wasn’t worth the risk of forcing the issue.

  “I recognise you,” McHardy said with a note of astonishment. “You’re the cop who came to our Hong Kong office? Aren’t you a bit far from your beat?”

  “What’s your interest in Henry Chan? He’s just confessed to planning a Chinese political coup,” Scrimple heard himself saying forcefully.

  “Oh, we’re old business partners. Fact is, I want to ask him when our mutually beneficial arrangement was terminated on his side and how come he forgot to inform me.” McHardy smirked. He waved the muzzle of his automatic from side to side as if he were exercising his wrist. “Now what gives? Are you going to let us take the man and we’ll all edge quietly away here to fight another day or we going to be heroes?”

  “There’s no percentage in killing any of us,” Bill said.

  “I kind of agree with that,” McHardy replied. “Marco here used to be in the South African army. He’s a dab hand with the Uzi. But it’s not what we want. How about it then? Un-cuff Chan and we’ll leave nice and easy.”

  Bill moved behind the Chinese man by way of answer. There was no choice and they had to take the American’s word. He unclipped the handcuffs, then pulled Henry Chan to his feet, helping him to get his trousers back up.

  “Leave the hood on,” McHardy said, “Hello, Henry. You know who this is, don’t you?”

  “You’ve come to rescue me, John?”

  “Kind of.”

  Scrimple said aggressively, “McHardy, what was your involvement with all of this. What do you know about Bob Chen?”

  “Still asking all the questions, inspector?” McHardy said. “I’m afraid we don’t have time for the answers now.”

  Bill propelled the Chinese man forward and McHardy grabbed his captive.

  “Marco, watch them until I get Chan in the car and give you a shout. A deal is a deal. You know who we are and we know who you are, it’s best we all keep our mouths shut about this. Whatever you were doing in here with Chan wasn’t exactly standard police operating procedure.” McHardy moved off with the Chinese man. A minute later he called out from the yard and Marco inched backwards, smiling grimly, watching the three men for any sudden moves.

  “We let the tyres down on your car. So no ideas about trying to follow us. This is the end of the scene.”

  “In life you always meet each other twice,” Bill said philosophically.

  “If we do meet again, mate,” Marco said, “we’ll just pretend we don’t recognise each other.”

  Chapter 21

  It didn’t take them long to pack all the gear and clear up in the disused factory. Julian busied himself wiping down all surfaces they had touched. Safe is better than sorry. They had a strong suspicion that Henry Chan would turn up dead somewhere and didn’t want to be involved in any murder investigation for which they’d not made adequate preparation.

  Bill and Scrimple took turns with the foot pump working on getting the tyres inflated again. It took them forty minutes before they were ready to go. Luckily McHardy hadn’t tried to shred the tyres, which Scrimple thought was probably not that easy anyway.

  Finally, Julian backed the Toyota into the night and they headed for the highway, this time bound in direction of Rayong. There was no point in returning to Bangkok.

  At two in the morning they reached Bill’s house. Julian was going to take the car and dispose of it. Before Julian drove off, t
he two ex-policemen reminded Scrimple that what they had done was criminal, although it was all still deniable. Scrimple was fully involved. He’d been part of a kidnapping and a vicious interrogation. The end justified the means in this case but everyone would have to keep silent if anything ever came out. The loose piece was Henry Chan. He’d never seen any of their faces in the course of the evening and they’d always assumed he’d never be in a position to accuse any of them. If now, by some chance, McHardy released Chan there might be repercussions. It was a concern they couldn’t control at this stage. They’d just have to wait and see.

  Bill’s house was quiet as they stepped into the hallway. He showed Scrimple to the spare room where a bed was already made up.

  “Take a shower if you want and I’ll get Larry Lim on the phone. My study’s across the hallway.”

  Scrimple nodded with appreciation. He was ready to sleep like a log after the excitement of the last few hours. He’d come to Thailand to stay away from this adventure but it had followed him here and when the chance came to be part of the snatch he didn’t have it in him to say no. It was a form of destiny. He’d watched himself, with morbid horror, join in the action. In a way he felt shocked. In another way he felt proud, somehow freed of the tyranny of his job. This was the way to be: living on the edge and not trembling in servitude in front of a Harriet or the other bosses he’d served in Hong Kong.

  He was fascinated by the vicious efficiency of Bill Jedburgh and the casual callousness of Julian McAlistair. Somehow he doubted he could ever become like them, yet he admired their coldness and professionalism. It would all have been slick as a greasy pole if the American and his Uzi-bearing side-kick hadn’t turned up. Scrimple wondered, as he stepped under the hot spray, what the end-game would be. Henry Chan had told them an amazing story. But it seemed as if things had gone wrong in the Plan of Righteous Harmony. Jiang Jemin was supposed to have died in an airport bombing but the radio had told them he’d survived. That meant the rest of the coup and an invasion of Taiwan might not take place.