‘Why not just shoot the fuckers?’ asked Mark.
‘Because a bomb will muddy the waters,’ said Harper. ‘It’ll leave some doubt. I was thinking you could ask your Cambodian Army mates. I’m sure they’ve got some spare.’
‘I’m sure they have,.’ agreed Mickey grinned. ‘They should be able to get the PB for you, too.’
‘So are we good? Explosives and a detonator. Two to be on the safe side.’
‘What about a timing circuit?’
‘I’m sorted on that front. How soon can you get it for me?’
‘How soon do you need it?’ asked Mickey.
‘As soon as.’
‘Then I’ll fly over today. Providing we pay in cash we should have the stuff in Bangkok within twenty-four hours.’
‘How much do I owe you?’ asked Harper.
‘Buy me a chocolate vodka and we’ll call it quits.’ Mickey slapped him on the back. ‘Least I can do for a mate who’s willing to go to war with the Russian Mafia.’
‘It’s not a war, mate,’ said Harper. ‘It’s not even a fucking skirmish.’
CHAPTER 72
Armed police were standing at the two entrances to the compound where the Moore brothers lived. There was a tradition in Thailand of police officers hiring themselves out as security guards, usually in banks and jewellery shops, but Mickey’s police contacts were as good as Harper’s and there were always at least four on duty outside the compound. The two at the main entrance saluted his black Humvee as they drove by, which Harper thought was a nice touch. They were wearing white Tshirts, brown police uniform trousers, with shiny black boots, and had Glock pistols in nylon holsters on their hips.
There were six Thai-style villas around a central building, set in twelve acres of landscaped gardens with towering palms and spreading fruit trees. The main building had a large landscaped pool and a terrace protected by a pagoda-type roof where the brothers had regular barbecues. To the front of the main building a car parking area had spaces for more than two dozen vehicles. There were two black Range Rovers, a red Porsche, another black Humvee, a Bentley convertible, an old MGB sports car, and several Toyota saloons that belonged to the staff. Mickey parked the Humvee next to its twin, then jogged up the stairs and through the carved doors at the top. There was a double-height hallway with a vaulted teak ceiling and a seven-foot tall golden standing Buddha statue, wreathed in garlands of purple and white flowers. The hallway led to a huge room filled with overstuffed sofas and teak planters’ chairs, a large LCD television on one wall and a library of paperback books. It was the compound’s chill-out area. Leading off it was a dining room with a table long enough to seat twenty, and another room, which served as a private cinema with a dozen reclining seats and sofas.
Harper and Mark followed Mickey down a hallway to the double-height bar area, which had vaulted teak ceilings with large wooden-bladed fans turning slowly above their heads. It looked like a five-star hotel bar, with leather sofas and armchairs, and a mahogany counter complete with beer taps and a full range of spirits. Glass-fronted fridges held wine and soft drinks, and there was even a popcorn machine. The luxury-hotel feel was spoiled somewhat by the three pinball machines, a Wurlitzer jukebox and a massive fruit machine behind the pool table.
Two men were playing pool. Like Mickey, they were in their early fifties, well-muscled and tanned by the fierce Thai sun. Harper knew them both – Davie Black and Barry ‘Baz’ Wilson. Like the Moore brothers they were skilled armed robbers, though unlike the Moores they had done time. As a teenager, Davie had been caught robbing a post office with a chair leg in a supermarket carrier bag, and Baz had tried to run a Securicor van off the road in Liverpool and ended up in hospital, then prison after slamming his car into a lamp-post. Both had learned about the Moore brothers while behind bars and met up with them after their release. They had been part of the crew for the past fifteen years.
The Moores and their team had been responsible for some of the most spectacular heists and robberies in Europe over the past couple of decades. They rarely struck more than once a year, their haul was never less than a million pounds, and everything they did was planned to the last detail, usually by an expert hired for the job, although as their fame had grown it was more usual for someone to approach them with a plan. It was a faultless business model that had made them all multi-millionaires. But they spent what they earned, pretty much. Harper had tried to convince them to join him in his various drug-trafficking enterprises, in particular shipping cannabis from North Africa into the European Union, but they were old-school villains, and while they were happy to use drugs recreationally, they had always refused to get into the business. ‘Better the devil you know, mate,’ Mickey always said.
Davie and Baz stopped playing and came over to them.
‘Bloody hell! Lex Harper! How’s it going, stranger?’ Harper turned and grinned at the good-looking guy in a wheelchair, who had propelled himself in from next door. His name was Terry Norris, the youngest of the crew. Ex-army, a weapons expert, who was as good as anyone Harper had ever met, Norris had severed his spine in a motorcycle accident and was unlikely ever to walk again. Ramps and lifts all around the compound ensured that he could go wherever he wanted.
‘All good,’ said Harper, shaking the man’s hand.
‘I heard you’ve been winning friends and influencing people,’ said Terry.
‘That’s why he’s here,’ laughed Mickey. ‘We’re taking him under our wing.’ He pulled open a double-doored fridge and took out a bottle of Heineken. ‘Anyone else want one?’ he asked.
‘What do you think?’ asked Mark.
Mickey tossed him a beer. ‘Davie? Baz?’
‘We’re sorted,’ said Baz, nodding at a bottle of brandy on a shelf by the pool table. It was half empty.
‘Lex?’
‘I’m good,’ said Harper. He had spotted two Thai girls lying on one of the sofas, entwined in each other’s arms. Mickey saw what he was looking at and waved his beer bottle at them. ‘Who are they?’
‘They’re with me,’ said Baz. ‘Ning and Nong, I think. Ning for sure, Nong I could be wrong about. They’re lesbians. You can take them for a spin if you want when they wake up.’
‘Why would I want to fool around with lesbians?’ asked Mickey. ‘Doesn’t that sort of defeat the purpose?’
‘They’re happy enough for you to join in,’ said Baz.
‘Mate, I’ve told you before, I don’t want your sloppy seconds. Look, Lex is going to be staying in the empty villa.’ He grinned at Harper. ‘You’re welcome to Ding and Dong if you like.’
‘Ning and Nong,’ said Baz.
‘I’m good,’ said Harper.
‘Whatever,’ said Mickey. He looked at his watch. ‘Guys, I’m off to Cambodia first thing so I’m going to have to hit the sack if I’m going to get any sleep at all. Take care of Lex. Lex, mate, the chef’s on duty twenty-four/seven so order what you want.’
‘You still play pool, Lex?’ asked Baz.
‘Been known to,’ said Harper.
‘Let’s play doubles. You and Terry against me and Davie. Thousand bucks a game.’
Terry looked up at Harper and winked. ‘You up for this?’ asked Harper.
‘Money in the bank, Lex. And they can break.’
CHAPTER 73
Mickey Moore caught an early-morning Bangkok Airways flight to Phnom Penh. The journey took just over an hour and an army Land Rover was waiting for him as the plane taxied up to the terminal. As the rest of the passengers hurried towards Immigration and Customs, two soldiers carrying AK-47s escorted him to their vehicle and whisked him out of the airport.
They turned off the main road on the outskirts of Phnom Penh, then rattled along a dusty single-track road through the Cambodian countryside for the best part of an hour, eventually arriving at the army firing range, which Moore and his crew visited several times a year. It was intended for Cambodian troops to hone their skills but the army was happy for tourists to
have a go – at a price. Pretty much any weapon owned by the military was available, from simple handguns through AK-47s to bazookas. Hand grenades could be thrown for fifty dollars a go, and RPGs for five hundred. The army could also be creative in the targets it supplied. Barrels full of water were the target of choice for the machine-guns, but chickens could be supplied at five dollars a time. And larger weaponry, even hand grenades, could be hurled at cows and water buffaloes, as long as enough cash was handed over. Moore had heard that, providing enough money was paid, human targets could be provided from the local prison, but he figured – or hoped – that was just a rumour.
There were several firing ranges and a number of buildings that could be used as practice areas. The Moore brothers would come over with their crew to rehearse robberies on the range before flying to the UK to carry out the real thing. Their attention to detail at the planning stage was one of the reasons they had never been caught.
The colonel was sitting under a large canopy made of palm fronds in a La-Z-Boy chair overlooking one of the target ranges. At his side a stainless-steel ice bucket contained a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label while another held ice and several bottles of soda water. There was also a plate of sliced pineapple, a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum and his peaked cap.
He grinned when he saw Mickey climb out of the Land Rover and pulled the handle on the side of his chair to lower his feet. He stood up and hugged Mickey. ‘Always a pleasure to see you in my country, Mickey.’
‘Sam, good to see you, too,’ said Mickey, patting him on the back.
The colonel’s full name was Samang, which was Khmer for ‘lucky’, but most Westerners ended up shortening it to Sam.
Sam hugged Mickey again, then waved him to a chair that was the twin of his own. A very pretty girl with waist-length hair, wearing a traditional Khmer purple silk sarong, came over and poured Mickey a whisky and soda, then refilled the colonel’s glass. The two men toasted each other, drank, and sat down. The girl picked up the plate of pineapple and offered it to Mickey. He took a piece, dabbed it in a ceramic pot filled with chili, sugar and salt, and popped it into his mouth.
‘So, what can I do for you, my friend?’ asked the colonel.
Mickey waited until the girl had walked away, then said, ‘Explosives. What do you have?’
Sam held up his palms to the heavens. ‘I have whatever you want,’ he said. ‘C1, C2, C3, C4, CA, CB.’ His grin widened. ‘A veritable alphabet.’
‘What would be best for taking out a vehicle? A car?’
‘You can’t go wrong with C4,’ said Sam.
‘How much would you need?’
‘To destroy the vehicle? Or just kill the occupants?’
‘The occupants.’
The colonel nodded thoughtfully. ‘Half a kilo would suffice.’
‘Can you deliver it to me in Pattaya tomorrow?’
‘It’s urgent?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Mickey confirmed.
‘Then of course tomorrow can be arranged. It will be expensive.’
‘No problem. It’s a ten-hour drive, right?’
‘Not necessary, my friend. I will have it delivered from Siem Reap. Five and a half hours, maybe six. I can have it in Pattaya by midnight.’
‘Perfect. How much. I’ll need a couple of detonators, too.’
‘Of course.’
‘And something a little special if you have it. A silenced pistol. A Russian one, if possible.’
Sam laughed. ‘You’re not planning to assassinate someone are you, Mickey?’ He drained his glass, then waved for the waitress to refill it, and Mickey’s.
Again, Mickey waited until she had left before answering the colonel’s question, though he knew Sam was joking. ‘It’s for a friend,’ he said.
‘Of course it is,’ said the colonel. ‘But it’s none of my business who does what with what. We have several Makarovs and PB pistols in the armoury and I’m sure there’s a least one with a working suppressor.’
‘Excellent. And the cost? For everything?’
‘Including delivery, three thousand dollars, my friend.’
Mickey reached inside his jacket, took out an envelope and counted thirty hundred-dollar bills. There was no need to do anything but pay up front because the colonel had never let him down.
‘Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mickey.’ The colonel slipped the notes into the pocket of his tunic.
‘And you, Sam.’
The colonel raised his glass. ‘You should stay for lunch. A rich American is going to fire a machine-gun at a cow and we’ll barbecue what’s left. We’ll have you at the airport in plenty of time for the early-evening flight.’
Mickey raised his glass in salute. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
CHAPTER 74
Police Colonel Somchai Wattanakolwit kept his eyes on the ball, swung back the club and tried to clear his mind of everything accept the shot he was about to make. He started his swing, relaxed into it, and was rewarded with a satisfying crack as the ball soared into the air.
‘Nice shot,’ said a voice behind him, and Somchai turned to find himself looking into the amused eyes of Lex Harper.
‘You shouldn’t go creeping up on someone like that,’ said Somchai. ‘Not when I have my gun in my golf bag.’ He handed his club to the nineteen-year-old girl caddy. She was wearing a tight-fitting white T-shirt, a short white skirt and dark blue panties, as were the twenty-year-old driver of his golf cart and the girl who was responsible for supplying him with cold beers and even colder towels. Somchai was wearing a pink polo shirt and blue and green checked trousers with a snakeskin belt. His three fellow players – all off-duty policemen – were equally brightly dressed, each with a golf cart and three caddies to attend to his needs.
Harper wasn’t dressed for golf – he had on blue jeans and a cheap grey hoodie and didn’t appear to have shaved that day. ‘Now, this is a pleasant surprise,’ said Somchai. ‘I had no idea you were back in Thailand.’ He stepped forward, put his arm around Harper’s shoulders and led him away from his golfing buddies.
‘Hopefully very few people do,’ said Harper.
‘You should bring your clubs next time,’ he said.
‘I don’t own golf clubs,’ said Harper. ‘I don’t have the patience.’
‘That’s the whole point,’ said Somchai. ‘It teaches you patience. There is something very Zen-like about golf. I think that’s why we Asians enjoy it so much.’
One of his caddies came over and gave them both iced towels. Harper slapped his on the back of his neck. It was a hot day, well into the high thirties. Expats always claimed that Thailand had two seasons. Hot, and very hot.
Somchai turned to watch the next golfer teeing up his shot. ‘You know that Yuri Lukin has hired some very heavy hitters?’ he said.
‘I sort of thought that might happen,’ said Harper, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn’t carry.
‘And security has been increased at Valentin’s compound for when he and Grigory Lukin are released from hospital.’ Somchai rubbed his cold towel around his neck. ‘Though I gather it will be a few days yet before the doctors allow them to leave. You did a lot of damage, it seems.’
‘Allegedly,’ said Harper.
‘It’s good to see you have retained your sense of humour, my friend,’ said Somchai.
The golfer hit the ball with a resounding thwack that sent it soaring into the air and Somchai nodded appreciatively. He smiled at Harper. ‘I’m not sure that you coming back to Pattaya was a good idea.’
‘I need to get this sorted, Somchai. I can’t spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.’
Somchai seemed uncomfortable. ‘My friend, as much as I’d like to, I can’t protect you. Yuri Lukin is paying off the boss of my boss and even higher, and I can’t go against them.’
Harper shook his head. ‘It’s not your protection I need, Somchai,’ he said. ‘It’s your permission.’
Somchai frowned. ‘My permission?
For what, may I ask?’
Harper’s smile broadened. ‘Your permission to protect myself.’
Somchai chuckled. ‘Oh, by all means, my friend. You do what you have to do.’ He patted Harper on the back. ‘And I wish you all the luck in the world.’
CHAPTER 75
Mark prodded the massive T-bone steaks that were sizzling on the grill while Baz and Lex looked on, drinking bottles of Heineken. ‘Japanese beef,’ said Mark. ‘Can’t beat it. The cows get a bottle of beer every day, a massage and probably a happy ending for all I know. Best beef in the world. And the most expensive.’
Aerosmith was blaring from the stereo system and braziers had been lit around the pool, casting flickering shadows over the water. Half a dozen Thai girls were playing in the water and more were sprawled around the cabanas. It was party night, but pretty much every night was party night at the compound.
‘See anything you like, Lex?’ asked Mark, waving a pair of stainless-steel tongs. Harper wasn’t sure if he was referring to the girls or the steaks. The barbecue was huge and the table next to Mark was piled high with steaks, chicken and fish, and another laden with salads, sauces and vegetables. The Moore brothers had three chefs between them working round the clock, all hired from top hotels on much-improved salaries. The girls were also paid, and Harper recognised several top dancers from the city’s best go-go bars. Baz had left the compound at just before eight in one of the Humvees and had returned with six of the girls, all obviously pleased at being asked to spend an evening partying rather than dancing around a chrome pole. Mickey had arrived at the compound at just after six and had phoned in the rest of the girls, most apparently regular visitors to the compound. Two were dancing topless at the side of the pool while two more had appointed themselves bartenders and were walking around refilling glasses and offering fresh beers.
‘Lex, how do you want your steak?’ asked Mark, waving his tongs in the air.
‘Just cut the hoofs off and throw it over.’ Harper laughed. ‘The rarer the better.’
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