I recalled Andrew Yipp’s words, quoted from The Art of War: “Choose your battles carefully, Captain. Only fight the battles that you can win.”
It was sound advice but it stuck in my craw. It wasn’t me. I faced up to bullies. I didn’t walk away. You can’t fight your own nature. Maybe Sun Tzu understood that. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe his wisdom was just academic.
Images of my boxing match with Stevenson flashed in my mind. It had been a gruelling fight. I knew about Slugger’s haymaker right. I’d seen earlier bouts where men had been lifted off their feet with its power.
I was agile and fast. I was well coached and could jab to score points and move to avoid the big blows. I was also a southpaw, which gave me an advantage. Most of the men had never been trained, and a lefty caused them problems. Fighters tend to act on instinct. They have their favoured punches and combinations. Especially as tiredness sets in, they stop thinking, stop expecting the blow to come from the left glove.
Most of my powerful punches were counterblows; I’d wait for the opponent to strike, to commit themselves, and then bam.
The approach served me well. Although amateur boxing in the army wasn’t the same as being a regular pugilist. Most of the heavyweights had broken noses within a year. Stevenson’s nose was squashed like it had been broken many times, whereas mine was undamaged. Boxing seriously from the age of sixteen. I’d gone on to box for Cambridge for three years and then a further three in the army. Through my agility, I managed to avoid the big punches. That is, until I met Stevenson.
I could smell the canvas, the chalk and the sweat. I was there, my adrenaline was pumping. I was focused. I was thinking. I was moving. But the big guy kept getting me with body blows. He wasn’t stupid. He must have seen me fight and knew I was fast, that I’d avoid the power blows. So he got in close and hit me hard, like a punchbag.
I remembered the surge of energy I’d found, how I’d danced back and let him come for me. He thought he had me in the corner. I sensed the ropes at my back. And then I sidestepped. That’s when I threw the roundhouse and caught him in the eye. The left glove, when his brain expected the right.
I felt the impact. I saw the distortion of his face and the sweat spray off as he spun. I saw him hit the ring’s post. And then it was me. My face. My eye hitting something on the post. The pain. The shock. Blinded. Liquid cold on my cheek.
I woke up covered in sweat. And I knew what I had to do.
FIFTEEN
After my exercises there was no shower, only a bath. I improvised by throwing water over my body—careful not to get my bandages wet. I dressed and was about to put on the ankle holster but then stopped. I didn’t need it for what I had planned. In fact, it was better that I didn’t have it.
There was no sign of Jane at breakfast. But then I didn’t expect her. I figured she’d get up late and drink a lot of water until she felt better.
I rang Gillman Barracks from the hotel phone and got put through to Lieutenant Cole.
“Find out anything last night?” he asked without preamble.
“Nothing,” I said. I’d decided not to tell him about what we’d learned about the extra fuel being burned by the humanitarian aid flights. Not yet.
“Like I said, just a wild goose chase.”
I said, “Any news from the crossing?”
“We have a couple of leads. One’s described as a meat wagon. Pig carcasses bound for Singapore city. Three men inside.”
“And the other one?”
“A hearse.”
“How many?”
“Two people.”
I nodded to myself. It was the butcher’s van.
I said, “What’s the news from Doctor Thobhani?”
“Massive internal injuries. Looks like he was severely beaten before he died.”
“I didn’t see the bruising.”
“The Doc says it’s there but not as pronounced as you’d expect. He thinks maybe death occurred as a result. Beaten to death, like someone went crazy. There are two broken ribs and extensive internal damage: haemorrhaged bowel, ruptured kidneys and spleen, collapsed lungs.”
I shook my head, trying to dispel the image.
He continued: “Last meal was noodles and chicken. Blood still in the abdomen due to the haemorrhaging but the rest totally drained. So no real bruising on the skin.”
“Real bruising?”
“There are some skin changes that he says are telltale. Like if he was kicked to death, apparently a pathologist can get a read on the shoe size and shape.”
“And in this case?”
“He hasn’t decided yet.”
I said, “What about the numbers on the back?”
“Definitely blood.”
“OK. And time of death?”
“That’s puzzling him. He’s saying there are mixed results. Most suggest under twelve hours, but the blood in the abdomen is thin and black, which suggests longer. Although he can’t say how long.”
I thought for a moment. The butcher’s van. The conversation I’d had with the butcher about ice from Kuala Lumpur.
I said, “Has he thought about cold storage? The body might have been packed in ice.”
“I’ll tell him.”
One of the reasons for my call was about the clerk at BVD 221—the one in the turban who’d slipped us the note. I wanted to delay going there.
But before I managed to give an excuse, Cole beat me to it. He said, “What do you want to do today? I gave the major a debrief and he wants us back at Majidi Barracks. Thinks we need to talk to the men there—the ones Colonel Underwood suspects of taking drugs.”
That surprised me. “What about 221? What about the Indian clerk?”
“Maybe later.”
“What aren’t you telling me, Jim?”
There was a pause on the line. Then he said, “The Doc’s not sure about 221. Might not be anything. Might be random. He said the body had been on its back and maybe that’s how the blood got there.”
I guess that made sense. It was a shame that the lead seemed to go nowhere. Except that Cole didn’t know about the Kota Tinggi camp. Where the ROAC unit from BVD 221 billeted and where the humanitarian aid unit was. I didn’t like coincidences.
“Wild goose chase,” I said, echoing his previous words.
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Oh I don’t know,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I’ll have a poke around here. Maybe I’ll do a bit of sightseeing.”
“And come back to Singapore later? We could pick you up.”
“Sure,” I said. “Seventeen hundred hours at the hotel, all right?”
“Sure,” he said, echoing me.
I put the phone down. There was still no sign of Jane, so I left her a message at reception, wishing her a more successful day and a safe journey home.
Then I requested a taxi and asked for Camp Kota Tinggi.
SIXTEEN
I felt wonderfully calm as I walked along the bumpy, compacted sand road. There was cloud but the sun was out and the air had that morning freshness that made me think of a late English summer. Maybe the smell of warm grass helped.
The birds seemed to be more confident this morning too.
Past the NAAFI, I stepped onto the grass and walked across the scrubland towards the tents.
I could see aid workers. Some were sitting in the sun on deckchairs. There was a group at a couple of benches eating. I could smell sausages and figured they had their own little cookhouse going on.
As I got closer I could see that some of the tents were actually huts under awnings. Inside them I spotted bags and crates: flour, biscuits, blankets, buckets, a whole panoply of hardware that was probably ex-army.
I don’t know who whistled, but a moment later all eyes were on me. Then someone shouted, “Slugger!”
I kept walking, heading towards the largest tent, more like a marquee than a scout tent. I figured this was effectively their HQ, if the humanitarian aid unit had such a thing. A man emerged carryin
g a plate of food and an enamel mug. He stopped, looked at me and then over my shoulder.
I reckoned I had a following. I could hear the mutters and footfall.
“Over here, College Cop,” Stevenson shouted from my right. He was standing, hands on his hips, with a grin on his face.
I turned towards him. The men behind me got closer.
Stevenson said, “Has the chicken changed his mind?”
I said, “I’ve come to deal.”
Stevenson laughed. The men behind me began a chorus of guffaws.
I said, “Talk in private first. Then you can have your fight.”
Stevenson stopped laughing. He nodded towards the marquee and headed for it. There were four men now standing outside, two wearing aprons.
Stevenson told them to clear off.
Inside and alone, I said, “I want an honest answer first. Then I’ll fight you. If that’s really what you want.”
“What’s your question?”
“Who’s the pilot of your plane?”
Stevenson looked puzzled by the question. “Jeevan. Why?”
“Is he running drugs?”
Stevenson laughed. “No, and that’s two questions.” He pushed past me, knocking shoulders. “Come on then, let’s go.”
The boxing ring was the far side of the HQ tent. I guessed it was deliberately hidden from the rest of the camp. The men stood around the edge of a bare patch of earth. There were no posts and no ropes.
A tall chair overlooked it and I was told this was for the referee. It was more like an umpire’s chair at a tennis match.
Stevenson had removed his top and quickly put on his gloves. I was given a worn, brown pair that felt heavier than I was used to. They were longer than modern gloves, were laced at the wrist and filled with straw. Stevenson wore soft boxing boots. My shoes were my usual brogues. They were less than ideal for quick footwork in a ring, but then my leg injury was going to hamper that anyway.
Amid the general buzz of excitement, I heard someone running a book and generating high betting interest. However, it wasn’t about who won. They were betting on how long I’d last.
The referee nominated a second for me. This man would hand me a stool and water between rounds. Stevenson’s would give him advice, whereas my guy looked like he’d never been in a fight in his life.
The referee climbed on the stool and the men cheered. In a thick Geordie accent, he said, “In the blue corner we have the Slugger”—the men cheered heartily—“and in the red corner we have the military pig!”
I heard pig-like grunts amid the boos.
“I want a good clean fight,” the referee shouted above the noise. It was without much conviction and the crowd jeered. “Five rounds of three minutes. There will be a count of ten for a knockdown. Three knockdowns and you’re out.”
Was I supposed to complain? Army bouts were traditionally three rounds of two minutes. I didn’t care. These were probably camp rules, and there was no debate.
The referee continued: “I will determine a winner of each round based on points. The winner of the bout will either be by knockout or by winning the most rounds.”
Stevenson grinned. “Don’t worry, College Cop, you won’t make it to five rounds.”
The crowd was pushing and getting restless. “Get on with it!” someone shouted.
The referee continued: “No punching below the belt. No holding, no kicking, no biting.” He waited for us both to nod our agreement before finishing with the obligatory: “May the best man win.”
I couldn’t see it, but a gong sounded nearby. I went to tap gloves with my opponent but he threw a jab. The crowd immediately started chanting, “Slugger! Slugger! Slugger!”
I back-pedalled around the ring to much derision. Ordinarily I reckoned I could beat Stevenson for brains and speed, but I couldn’t match him blow for blow. His strategy, and I assumed he had one, would be to crowd in, hitting fast and heavy.
I kept moving. Ordinarily I would have been lighter on my feet. I tried to move faster but my injured right calf screamed.
Stevenson had a piledriver right hook that could knock a man to the floor. His right uppercut would lift a man off his feet. He had ten, maybe fifteen pounds weight advantage over me and would use it if a blow landed.
We did a couple of circuits. Whenever I neared what would have been the ropes, hands pushed me back. After a sustained series of blows to my arms, I received a push from the crowd and Slugger caught me in the ribs.
He thought he had me then but I threw a quick right that he couldn’t duck or block. After rocking his head back three times, Stevenson quit the attempted body blows and tried to mix it up.
The gong sounded the end of the round and we went to our respective corners. My stool came out and I sat down feeling pretty good. The blows that Stevenson had landed hadn’t been with full force. In turn, I’d made some good contact and, counting the blows, I was up on points.
The referee stood up in his chair and pointed to Stevenson’s corner. “The first round goes to the Slugger.”
There was a huge cheer.
I shook my head at Stevenson, who grinned at me.
At the sound of the second round gong, Stevenson stepped quickly to the referee’s chair and said something gruffly to him. Then he turned and came at me swinging. I bobbed and weaved and the pushes went wide.
We settled down into the cat-and-mouse routine of before. Mostly, I back-pedalled.
Stevenson had a nice combination: straight left to the face and straight right to the body. I paid little attention to the left, knowing there was no real force behind it. I pulled my head to one side and at the same time shot a left to Stevenson’s ribs, beating his right hand.
Stevenson tried again and again to make contact with my solar plexus. I kept my elbows in, blocking. In return, my longer reach caught him with a few straight rights. Finally he cottoned on and dived under it, sinking a hammer blow into my midriff.
I clinched him to catch my breath and immediately hands from the crowd pulled us apart. Stevenson threw a punch as I was held and caught me on the cheek.
“Lucky that was just a tap.” He grinned, mocking me.
“Cheating,” I said. “Is that the way you win?”
He closed in and we traded blows until the end of the round. I ducked and rode everything and not a solid punch landed. But then I made little progress in return.
“The second round goes to the MP!” the referee screamed above the noise and was immediately drowned out by boos.
Again that felt wrong, but maybe he was making up for the previous bad call.
Stevenson stood in his corner like a tethered beast desperate to get out again. My stool didn’t appear so I also stood.
At the sound of the third round gong, Stevenson lunged forward. I stepped in to meet him and then moved to the side. My signature roundhouse made contact with his temple. It was a crunching blow that made Stevenson stagger. When he turned and looked back, his good eye had a fire in it.
After trading blows, I realized Stevenson had spotted that I favoured moving right. I pushed off with my left and protected my bad calf. My opponent started feinting with the left and driving a straight right, left combination at the place where he guessed I would move to.
I tried a trick of shooting my right to the face, dropping into the ribs and then jerking up towards the jaw in a kind of half uppercut. That took Stevenson off balance and my left would follow like a piledriver.
He twisted and took the big blow on his shoulder.
I landed an uppercut and followed it with a blow to Stevenson’s belly. The man merely howled, bloodthirsty and angry. In reply, a whistling left hook glanced off my temple and flung me into the crowd’s pushing hands.
Someone lashed out with a kick to my calf.
I staggered and Stevenson ripped a blow to my heart. He followed up with an immediate straight to the face. It drove me back on my heels with a grunt.
Stevenson pounced, the slugger th
at he was, but I was ready. I sidestepped his charge, hooking him viciously on the ear as he shot past. Then I ducked, just as Stevenson slewed around, and threw a right hook.
I backed away, shooting a right jab to Stevenson’s face just as the gong sounded.
“Third round goes to the MP!” the referee tried to shout, but it was lost in the crowd’s frenzied yells.
Stevenson sat and drank water from a cup. I had nothing. He glared at me from across the ring. We were both tired, but I judged myself to be the fitter man.
He won most bouts by knockout and I could see him building himself up for an explosion of power.
If the gong sounded, I didn’t hear it above the noise. I just saw Stevenson leap up and charge towards me. I felt hands propel me forward and then the excruciating pain.
I still don’t know what happened, whether it was natural or caused by someone else. All I know is that it was like I’d been stabbed in the calf.
I staggered right just as Stevenson began his onslaught: left, right, left, right. He swung away, ignoring the jabs I replied with.
It must have looked like a schoolyard scrap, Stevenson flailing his huge arms and me unable to dance away. I blocked and counterpunched.
He caught me a flashing right hook to the head. I staggered but immediately answered with a left hook to his ribs.
Head down and chin in, he bulldozed forward, driving me into the crowd.
Again the shooting pain in my right calf. I must have glanced away, maybe instinctively looking to see if someone had kicked me. It was all the opening Stevenson needed. From the corner of my eye I saw a straight left. I dodged it. But he had planned for the move and his right hook took me off my feet.
The thwack of leather, driven hard against my jaw, reverberated through my skull.
I tried to keep my balance but my right foot landed awkwardly. I slipped on the dirt.
For a second I was down, my right leg on the edge of the ring. But it was long enough for someone to take the opportunity. A boot stamped down on my calf.
I yelled out, gritted my teeth and forced the pain from my mind. I heard the referee start to count and I forced myself to my feet.
Singapore Girl: An edge of your seat thriller that will have you hooked (An Ash Carter Thriller Book 2) Page 7
