Live Fire

by Stephen Leather

  Mark untangled himself him from the bargirl. ‘Chopper said you’ve rented a place through Dom Windsor,’ he said.

  ‘From the sound of it I got ripped off. You’ve built your own, right?’

  ‘Yeah, you should come out and see it some time.’ Mickey finished his drink and banged the glass on the table in front of him. ‘We’re off to go katoey-watching, do you want to come?’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Come with us and you’ll find out.’ Mark laughed.

  They paid their bills, left the bar and started back to Walking Street. Mark and Mickey walked ahead, deep in conversation. Shepherd fell into step with Yates. ‘Katoey?’ he asked.

  ‘Katoeys are ladyboys,’ said Yates.

  ‘Terrific,’ said Shepherd. ‘When you promised me a boys’ night out, I didn’t think that was what you meant.’

  Yates laughed. ‘We’re just watching, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s a laugh.’

  Mickey and Mark turned into a bar with wicker seats and tables. They sat down and ordered a round of beers as Yates and Shepherd joined them. A Thai girl in a tight red dress that barely concealed her backside squealed when she saw Mark and practically threw herself at him. Most of the Westerners drinking in the bar looked as if they had just walked off the remand wing of a prison – they were all wearing Nike tracksuit bottoms, tshirts and gleaming trainers, and sported a selection of West Ham and British bulldog tattoos.

  Across the street Shepherd noticed a large outdoor bar with a boxing ring. Two heavy-set Thais were kicking each other so hard that he could hear the dull thuds from almost fifty yards away. To the right escalators led to go-go bars on the upper floor. Standing close to the bottom were half a dozen of the prettiest girls Shepherd had seen since he’d arrived in Thailand – like leggy supermodels, they walked with an exaggerated swing to their hips, preening themselves and tossing their hair. They were wearing short dresses, with impossibly high stilettos, and carried small designer bags. They were constantly taking out mirrors to check their makeup. They were all taller than the average Thai girl and had breasts so perfect that they could only have been the result of a surgeon’s skill. They weren’t women, Shepherd realised. They were transsexuals.

  Yates was grinning at him. ‘They’re something, aren’t they?’

  ‘They’re all guys?’

  Yates pointed at the bar to the right of the escalators. A sign read JENNY STAR BAR. Under it, another dozen or so stunning ladyboys were mingling with male customers. ‘Every one,’ said Yates. ‘It’s a ladyboy bar. There aren’t any girls.’

  Mickey leaned over. ‘What do you think, John?’

  ‘They’re lovely, mate, but have they all had their tackle removed?’

  Mickey slapped his leg. ‘Never been close enough to find out,’ he said.

  ‘None of them have had the operation,’ said Mark. ‘They’re sick bastards. But not as sick as the bastards that go with them.’

  ‘Gays, you mean?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Gays won’t touch them,’ said Mickey. He lit a cigar and blew smoke towards the road. ‘Our mate Davie’s a pillow-biter and he reckons they’re an abomination. If you’re a gay guy you like men, is the way he tells it. Straight guys like women.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘But if a gay guy fancied a katoey, he might as well go with a woman,’ said Mickey.

  Shepherd nodded. ‘So that brings me back to the question, who goes with the katoeys?’

  ‘Sad bastards,’ said Mickey, flicking ash onto the floor.

  Mark stroked the girl’s backside and asked her to fetch another round of beers. ‘Guys who’ve been inside, for one,’ said Mark. He grinned at Shepherd.

  Shepherd stared at him. He didn’t want a confrontation with the man but he was Ricky Knight, and Ricky Knight wouldn’t let a remark like that pass, even when he was pretending to be someone else. ‘You mean something by that?’ he asked.

  Mark’s face hardened. ‘You got a problem, John?’

  ‘If you’re giving me grief, yeah.’

  ‘I’m just making conversation,’ said Mark. ‘Just saying that guys who’ve been inside aren’t averse to chasing the chocolate chutney, that’s all.’

  Mickey patted Shepherd’s leg. ‘John, he didn’t mean anything personal.’

  Mark put down his beer. ‘Shit, have you been inside? Sorry, mate, I didn’t know.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s not something I boast about.’

  ‘You don’t look the type, mate,’ said Mark.

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I can tell you one thing, there was never any question of chasing the chocolate chutney.’

  ‘No offence, mate.’

  ‘All right, mate. None taken.’

  The men drank their beer and watched the comings and goings at the Jenny Star Bar. Every few minutes a ladyboy would leave hand in hand with a Western man. They walked down an alley to the left of the bar they were sitting in, the ladyboys tossing their hair like thoroughbreds ready for the off, the men avoiding eye contact with anyone who looked their way.

  ‘Where are they going?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Short-time hotel for a bit of how’s-your-father,’ said Mickey. He puffed contentedly at his cigar.

  ‘The guys know, right? They know they’re not real girls?’

  ‘I would think so,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Funny old world, innit?’ said Shepherd. He picked up his beer bottle and took a swig.

  ‘So, you’ll be here for a while?’ said Mark.

  ‘Foreseeable future,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about you guys? Why did you choose Thailand?’

  ‘Other than the sun, sea and sex?’ laughed Mark. ‘Give me a break! Where else would you want to go?’

  ‘The Costa?’

  ‘Spain’s a shit-hole, these days,’ said Mickey. ‘And they’ve got the same EU crap that they have in the UK. They can put you in prison now for smoking, or putting the wrong rubbish in your wheelie-bin. In Thailand you can do what you want and no one will give you any grief.’

  ‘We love it here,’ said Mark. ‘Wouldn’t live anywhere else.’

  ‘And what do you do to earn a crust?’

  ‘Banking,’ said Mark, and laughed. Mickey flashed him a warning look and Mark flushed. ‘Joke,’ he said.

  ‘We’re in property,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ve done a few projects in Spain and we’ve got a few things going here.’

  ‘You’re not builders, though?’ said Shepherd, playing the innocent.

  ‘We put the deals together,’ said Mickey. ‘Arrange to buy the land, get an architect, hire the builders and then an agent to sell the properties.’

  ‘Pays well, obviously.’

  ‘Pays bloody well,’ said Mark.

  ‘What about you, John?’ asked Yates. ‘What’s your game?’

  ‘Bit of this, bit of that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Cars, mostly. Buy cheap, sell high, pocket the difference. Thought I might try it out here, bring in some luxury motors. They drive on the left, same as in England, so I figured maybe I could import a few Aston Martins and the like. Lots of rich Thais here, right?’

  ‘Bloody rich,’ said Mickey. ‘But you’ve got to reckon with the import duty on expensive cars. Doubles the price, and some.’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘Yeah, I know. The trick is to get them really cheap.’

  ‘You mean nick ’em,’ said Mark, jabbing a finger at him.

  ‘You might say that, Mark, but I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Shepherd. He raised his bottle in salute.

  ‘You’re a tea leaf?’ said Yates. ‘Bloody hell, you can’t trust anyone these days.’

  ‘Guys, leave it out,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just here for a bit of sun, that’s all.’

  ‘Seriously – you deal in hot cars?’ said Mickey. ‘We might be interested.’

  Shepherd lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Look, I don’t go hot-wiring motors or anything like that. I�
�m a middle man. I know some people who have a knack of acquiring luxury motors and I find markets for them. We ship a lot out to the Caribbean, places like Jamaica and Barbados because they drive on the left there so you don’t have to start messing around with steering-wheels. Just shove them into a container and Robert’s your mother’s brother.’

  ‘You should look at other countries while you’re out here,’ said Mickey. ‘Japan, Malaysia, Macau, Singapore, they all drive on the left.’

  A group of young men walked by in England football shirts. They all had shaved heads and tattooed arms and were carrying bottles of Chang beer. ‘Pattaya seems to be pretty popular with Brits,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ said Mark. He took a swig of Singha. ‘At the last count there were more than fifty thousand living in Thailand and a good chunk of them are here.’

  ‘For the sun, sea and sex?’ Shepherd laughed.

  ‘It’s not just that,’ said Mickey. ‘Sure, it’s easy to get laid but Mark and me never had problems getting laid back in London. And most of the girls here are hookers, don’t forget. You might get a great shag but she’s probably done a thousand or so guys over the years.’

  ‘Sloppy seconds,’ said Mark, grimacing.

  ‘Sloppy thousands, more like,’ said Mickey.

  ‘But they do love us, the Thais,’ said Mark, slipping his arm around the girl in the red dress. She giggled and rested her cheek against his shoulder while she massaged his thigh. ‘Don’t you, darling?’ asked Mark. The girl was smoking a cigarette. He took it from her and had a drag.

  ‘I love you too much,’ she said, and giggled. ‘I love you long time.’

  ‘See?’ said Mark, as if he’d just proved a complicated theorem.

  The girl took the cigarette back from Mark and kissed his cheek. ‘Long time, five thousand baht.’

  Shepherd paid the driver of the baht bus and pressed the remote control to open the gates. He walked unsteadily along the path to the front door. He was drunk – drunker than he’d been in a long time. When he was under cover he favoured spirits and mixers so that he could dilute his alcohol but the Moores and their team were beer drinkers and he wanted to fit in. He let himself into the villa and for a moment couldn’t remember the code to silence the beeping burglar alarm, but then his memory kicked in and he tapped in the four digits.

  He went into the kitchen, took out a bottle of Evian water and drank most of it. Then he walked outside to the swimming-pool, sat on one of the wooden sunloungers and called Charlotte Button. He filled her in on what had happened.

  ‘Well done, you,’ she said. ‘So, you’re in?’

  ‘I’m a drinking buddy and, yeah, we’re getting on okay. They’ve seen me at the gym and in the bars and Mickey’s invited me around to their compound.’

  ‘But so far they think you’re John Westlake?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve been dropping hints that I’ve spent time inside and I’ve told them I deal in dodgy cars. It’s just a matter of time now, and the Europol info getting through to them.’

  ‘Are you okay? You sound a bit blurry?’

  ‘I’m drunk as a skunk, actually,’ he said.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Well, drink lots of water and try to sleep on your front.’

  ‘Is that the voice of experience?’ he said.

  ‘I was a student once,’ she said. ‘A long, long time ago. I had my moments.’

  She said goodbye and cut the connection. Shepherd lay back and gazed up at the stars. They began to whirl around and he felt his stomach lurch. He tasted bile at the back of his throat, his chest heaved and he threw up over the terracotta tiles. He groaned and got to his feet. ‘I’m getting too old for this,’ he muttered, and went back to the kitchen for a fresh bottle of water.

  ‘You did well, brother,’ said the man. He lit his hand-rolled cigarette, then took a deep drag and held the smoke in his lungs as he watched Bradshaw. They were sitting in the bedroom of the safe-house in Southall. The man’s minders were again in the kitchen downstairs but this time the woman had not brought them tea.

  ‘Are you satisfied now?’ asked Bradshaw. ‘Or do you have more tests for me?’

  The man smiled without warmth. ‘You would not expect us to take you at your word, would you? The day might come when you are in my position and someone you do not know asks you to trust them. I hope if that day comes you remember what happened between us.’ He scratched his beard.

  Bradshaw interlinked his fingers and bowed his head slightly. ‘I’m sorry if I appear impatient,’ he said.

  ‘You are showing your passion, and passion for Allah can only be a good thing,’ said the man. ‘Many Muslims are Muslims in name only. You are a true Muslim, a true warrior for Islam. So the answer to your question is, yes, I am satisfied.’ He swung the briefcase onto his lap and clicked open the locks. Bradshaw’s face fell when he saw that it contained only a large manila envelope. ‘You expected it to be full of money?’ the man asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Bradshaw.

  The man handed him the envelope and closed the briefcase. Bradshaw put the envelope into his jacket pocket. ‘Inside there are five ATM cards, each of which can be used to withdraw two hundred pounds a day,’ said the man. ‘That gives you one thousand pounds a day for expenses. Remember that ATM machines have cameras.’

  ‘How much is in each account?’ Bradshaw asked.

  ‘Twenty thousand pounds,’ said the man. ‘The PIN numbers are in the envelope, which is all the information you need to make withdrawals. Also in the envelope are the details of a safety-deposit box in Kensington. There are six hundred thousand euros in five-hundred-euro notes inside it.’

  Bradshaw had asked for sterling but appreciated that the high-denomination notes would be easier to transport.

  ‘You must understand that you will be held accountable for the money,’ said the man.

  ‘It won’t be wasted.’

  ‘I know that is your intention,’ said the man, ‘and I have no doubts about your integrity. But there are many conmen and charlatans out there who will happily take the money from you and give nothing in return. If that were to happen …’ He left the sentence unfinished and stood up. He stubbed out the remainder of his cigarette in the ashtray.

  ‘It will not,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Inshallah.’

  ‘Brother, if you squander that money, it will not be Allah who shoulders the blame,’ said the man. ‘Have no doubt about that.’ He held out his right hand. ‘I wish you luck.’

  Bradshaw stood up and shook it. ‘I will not fail you, and I will not fail Allah,’ he said.

  Mickey Moore beeped the horn of his Range Rover and the uniformed security guard jerked awake. He grinned shamefacedly as he stood up and hurried over to raise the red and white pole. Mickey pointed a finger at him. ‘Don’t you go bloody sleeping on my time, mate,’ he warned. The man was a police sergeant who had a taste for Thai whisky but he was the brother of a senior police officer in Pattaya so Mickey couldn’t get rid of him without losing one of his best contacts.

  ‘No problem,’ said the man, smiling so widely that he revealed two gold teeth at the back of his mouth.

  ‘I’ll give you no problem,’ muttered Mickey. He couldn’t remove the man from the payroll but he’d make sure in future that he wasn’t on the main gate. He gunned the engine and drove into the compound. Around the edge were six villas, and in the middle a main building with a large landscaped pool and a terrace protected by a pagoda-type roof. Mickey lit a cigar as he jogged up the stairs into the central hallway and walked along to the bar area.

  When he went in, Mark and Yates were sitting on one of the sofas with their feet up on the coffee-table watching the sixty-inch LCD television. Three Thai girls wearing only Tshirts were curled up on another sofa like napping kittens. Yates was flicking through the channels while Mark was tossing salted peanuts into the air and trying to catch them in his mouth. Wilson was standing by one of three amusement-arcade video shooting gam
es, blasting away at Zombies and Aliens with a plastic gun in each hand. ‘Who do they belong to?’ asked Mickey, jerking a thumb at the girls.

  ‘Chopper brought them back,’ said Mark.

  Yates frowned. ‘I thought you did.’

  ‘Not mine, mate,’ said Mark. ‘Kicked mine out first thing this morning.’

  ‘Leave them alone. They’re with me,’ said Wilson. ‘I’m done with them, Mickey, if you want to take them for a spin.’

  ‘I’ll get my own sluts, thanks,’ said Mickey. He dropped two dozen DVDs onto one of the coffee-tables. ‘Got the latest Tom Cruise movie, and it’s a perfect copy,’ he said. ‘And the new series of CSI.’

  Mark waved a large white envelope in the air. ‘Your mate Wanlop was around with the latest Europol watch list,’ he said. ‘Gave him fifty thousand baht and he went on his merry way.’

  Mickey took the envelope from him and went to the bar. He pulled open the double-doored fridge and took out a Singha. ‘Anyone else want one?’ he asked.

  Three voices chorused ‘Yeah’ in unison. Mickey pulled three beers from the fridge and tossed them to Yates, Wilson and Mark, then flopped on to one of the sofas. ‘Where’s Davie?’ he asked.

  ‘He went for a massage,’ said Yates. ‘Said he’d be back in time for the West Ham game.’

  ‘What time’s it start?’

  ‘Another hour yet,’ said Yates.

  Mickey slit the envelope with his thumbnail and took out a sheaf of computer printouts. He swigged his beer and flicked through them.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ asked his brother.

  Mickey grimaced. ‘Paedophile. Paedophile. Drug-dealer. Paedophile.’

  ‘Same old, same old,’ said Mark. ‘Sling over the paedophiles – be handy to know who we can beat the crap out of, if we get the chance.’

  Mickey passed over a handful. ‘Knock yourself out,’ he said. He turned a page and his eyes widened. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, under his breath, and his teeth clamped on his cigar.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Yates, craning his neck to see what Mickey was looking at.