FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE (46 page)

HONG KONG and MACAU

It’s operation day
, and we had a short panic. We realised that at six feet eleven inches tall, with a sixty-two inch chest and four foot shoulders, we can’t buy a dark boiler suit in Hong Kong that will fit Mac.

Once again, Roger Wynne, my pal and the hotel’s head concierge, came to the rescue. Roger’s friend Manu Melwani, aka Sam the Tailor from Kowloon – maker of my beloved shirts – was visiting the hotel. They came to my suite post-haste; Manu stood on a stool to measure Mac, and he rang the measurements through to his workshop.

Less than an hour after Manu and Roger left, three black boiler suits with reinforced knees and elbows were delivered to the Island Shangri-La – just in time for us to leave in a taxi. There’s no hotel limo for us tonight.

The taxi dropped us at Causeway Bay. We saw Uncle Sui’s massive junk tying up at the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club’s floating pontoon, next to the typhoon shelter and the Noon Day Gun emplacement. Mac and I hurried on board before any officious prick from the yacht club could spot us.

When we arrived in Macau Uncle Sui introduced us to the twelve Red Pole fighters he’s picked to assist us. I can’t help noticing that there isn’t a pure Chinese man or woman amongst them; all the Red Poles are Macanese. This means that any witnesses to the killings, if any could be found, would probably describe us all as foreigners…ensuring that no investigations will lead back to Uncle Sui’s door. I have to hand it to Uncle Sui, it’s a smart move all right.

———

We split into two squads, each with our own Red Pole interpreter. Finn’s leading one squad – they’re out at the airport – and I’m leading the other.

My squad checked the Russians’ favourite restaurant, and I spoke to the waiter who’d probably taken those great surveillance photos. He told me the Russians already ate and left, and he mentioned that he’s managed to pick up some Russian vocabulary since the arrival of the Russian cruise ships to Macau.

“Yeah? Did ya hear where they might be headin’?” I asked.

“Yes sir. They were talking about collecting four new girls from the airport at nine p.m.”

We already know this – that’s why Finn’s at the airport.

“Anything else?”

“Yes…they were laughing themselves silly because the girls they’re collecting think they’ll be working as nannies…looking after small babies. And one Russian sneered to his pal, ‘this, they can nurse this,’ while rubbing his crotch,” the waiter told me, with a look of disgust on his face.

“Thanks very much,” I said, before heading out the door. I picked up the notion that the waiter doesn’t give a shite if the Russians never go back to his restaurant. More than that, I’m sure he knows already that they won’t be ordering any more borscht from him. Fair play to him, he knows a sleaze bag when he meets one.

The more I hear about these Russians, the more relaxed I am about putting high-velocity, seven point six two millimetre rounds in their philtra. The philtrum is that grand little part of the human anatomy between the upper lip and the nose. Shoot a person in that spot and there’s no chance of the round ricocheting off the skull, not even if it’s fired from five hundred metres away. The shot severs the spinal cord, and the central nervous system shuts down immediately. It stops them getting off a retaliatory round. It’s not a simple shot, not every marksman can make it…but then, I’ve had lots of practise, see. One round through the philtrum is my signature shot; like some entertainers have a signature tune, I have a signature shot. Let the world know they were shot by Mac….Why not, eh?

Judging by the surveillance photos of the Russians’ house, I reckon I’ll be no more than fifty metres from my targets. There’s no chance of a ricochet at that range, still, I’ll go for their philtra all the same.

Knowing Finn Flynn, he’ll want to get in amongst them, cut a few throats – that’s Finn for you. He’s not so keen on shooting blokes, especially from a distance. I reckon he just likes re-living the times of his illustrious ancestor…without the jewel-encrusted sword of course. I’d never say that to him though. He’s a bit touchy on the subjects of Fionn mac Cumhaill and killing folks, if the truth be told.

———

Five Russians are escorting four teenage girls out of the airport arrivals hall. The girls are pushing trolleys piled high with tatty, cheap luggage tied with string. They look just like any young girls arriving in a new country to work for a minimum wage.

My squad followed them as they left the airport. They drove about half a mile along the coast from the Pousada de São Tiago Hotel, to a large Portuguese
fazenda
in two acres of grounds. A Mercedes 500 limousine and a Lincoln Town Car turned into the driveway.

The sun is long gone and the overcast sky is pitch black; not even a sliver of moonlight shines on us as we arrive at the
fazenda
. I know Mac is delighted, he hates moonlight with a vengeance. We stopped outside the wrought iron gates guarding the entrance. A copse of mature cypress trees, and enormous Brazilian pines with branches like giant monkeys’ tails, obscures the view of the house from the road.

My walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Keep your crew back till the Russians have gone ta bed for the night. Four of mine are already in the grounds. They have clear views of the main reception room and the front and side entrances,” said Mac, from his vantage point high up in a Brazilian pine.

As my group checked their weapons, I slipped my World War II commando knife from its sheath and ran its blackened steel blade through my fingers. I have yet to find a more effective killing tool. The parallel grooves let blood run freely from the wound and allow me to extract the knife quickly, even when I’ve stabbed up to the hilt. I unsheathed my Bowie knife…thirty three centimetres of heavy, hardened, razor-sharp steel in a four inch bone handle. This was a favourite weapon during the pioneering days of America’s Wild West. The well-balanced Bowie knife can cut the head off a bison and split a man from his neck to his crotch. I can’t verify its prowess with bison – or ‘buffaloes’ as the misinformed makers of western films like to call them – but I’ve split my fair share of men with my Bowie knife. I favour the slash-strike to the side of the neck, rather than the more cumbersome neck-to-crotch move. And yes, a Bowie knife can separate a man’s head from his neck with one blow…even if he’s wearing military body armour.

A single shot broke the silence. Mac has begun the party. With my Red Poles close behind, we ran through the gate, up the driveway and into the shrubbery. Another shot. Knowing Mac’s accuracy, that’s two dead Russians. Once we reached the shelter of the house, my squad waited.

“The rest of my crew is inside…but two Russians have two of the newly arrived girls out the back. They’re dragging them into the undergrowth,” said Mac through the walkie-talkie.

My group took off towards the back, but I bumped into a man on the side of the house. His trousers are undone and he’s pissing on the flower bed. He let go of his prick and grabbed a rifle propped against a wheelbarrow. I stabbed him in his left kidney, withdrew my commando knife and chopped his head off with the Bowie. That’s not the first time I’ve caught someone having a pee in response to the sound of gunfire.

I heard two short bursts of automatic fire from behind the house, and I saw nozzle flashes from the upstairs windows in three rooms. The two Russians with the girls were already taken care of by the time I reached the back garden.

At my command, my squad of Red Poles rushed the back door of the house and disappeared inside. I heard sustained bursts of automatic fire, followed by a crash and two thuds as two fat men fell out an upstairs window.

Now there’s just a handful of Russian males yelling in Russian and English between bursts of automatic gunfire. “
У нас есть заложники…отступить, или мы убьем их
! We’ve got hostages…back off or we’ll kill them!”

There were more automatic bursts, but no more voices…until Mac came through on the walkie-talkie. “There’s one more outside, south side of the house. He’s holding two terrified girls in front of him as human shields. Leave him to me.”

I don’t want to miss out on all the action, so I ran around to the south side of the house, hoping to get there in time with my commando knife. I arrived to the crack of a single shot. I’m too late.

The girls screamed as their captor sank to the ground with blood gushing from the gaping wound between his mouth and nose. The four newly arrived Russian girls might be naive, but they’re not stupid. They used the lull in the action to scamper down the driveway and out the gate.

Less than three minutes and it’s all over. Twenty Russians gone ta mammy, as Mac says.

Mac climbed down from his tree and joined me inside the house. The Red Pole fighters gathered up the bodies of the dead Russians…and the decapitated head. They laid all the bodies out in the large foyer of the house like trophies.

Right on cue, Mac’s interpreter arrived with a flatbed Toyota lorry. The Red Poles dragged the bodies on to the back of the lorry and covered them with heavy tarpaulins. Mac and myself collected the weapons and boiler suits and put them in my van.

When everything was loaded up, Mac’s interpreter handed the keys of the lorry to my interpreter. Three vehicles drove away from the scene, and ten minutes later the corpse-laden lorry was parked outside the entrance of the Lisbon Hotel and Casino.

We drove to the ferry terminal car park and Mac’s interpreter is standing alongside him, outside their van. I presumed she’s waiting for further orders. I got that wrong! Mac told me they’re going to spend a few days exploring Hainan Island; his new friend has promised to teach him a few words of Chinese. Anyway, he agreed to meet me back in Hong Kong within a week.

———

I took the jetfoil to Central and I’m in my suite at the Island Shangri-La. I have a lot of thinking to do.

What if Chopper Conway comes up with a firm connection between Paul Wills and Susie’s murder? Do I kill Paul too…and leave his daughter with no father, her mother with no hope, and his wife with no husband? Or should I make him aware that I know what he’s done, and then let him believe that I’ve forgiven him? Which of course wouldn’t ever be true…in my heart he’ll always be a dead man walking.

I also have to figure out what to do about the heroin. In spite of telling Uncle Sui that I’d hold off on it, the deal has to go ahead, now. I’ve managed to make money since I arrived in Hong Kong, but I can’t afford to forget the two hundred thousand US dollars I laid out for the heroin…or the six million pounds I hope to get for it in Britain. And Ingrid is entitled to a return from the money she gave me. Uncle Sui will have to light a fire under the Cambodians to get the shipment on its way to Rotterdam.

The traveller’s cheques won’t bring in money for long…even the Gambian businessmen have to send the cheques back to American Express once in a while. And the first time they do the shite will hit the fan in Banjul. Then there’ll be no more teak wood for the Yakuza, or money for us. Hussein will manage to talk his way out of it – I have no doubt about that. He’ll join all the other victims complaining about how they were duped by the filthy foreigners with their fake cheques.

Will Vinnie come up trumps on the deals we have going with Earl? There might be a lump sum coming from there, but I have little faith in these so-called bank scams.

I’m thinking of settling down somewhere warm with Anna…and it will take money to buy a house, and maybe start a business. Jaysus, I have to be getting old even to be thinking like this. What the feck’s happened to live-today-forget-tomorrow Finn Flynn?

I’ve made the first decision of the rest of my life…I’ll make my way to Plume’s. I know that I’ll probably have to talk about Susie – which I’ve been putting off for as long as I could – but I have to bite the bullet and accept that I can’t avoid it forever.

TAIPEI, CHEUNG CHAU ISLAND and MACAU

The phone is
ringing and my head is pounding. Vinnie and me tied one on last night, to celebrate the Taiwan business.

“Yeah?”

“Earl…are the Russian broad and her kid packed and ready to leave? The Gulfstream will be in Hong Kong in six hours or so, depending on the head winds.”

The call woke me from my drink-induced stupor. Angelo Zambito has a very loud voice…there’s no Marlon Brando godfather whisper with this don. Even talking from seven thousand miles away it’s not any quieter. I feel awful.

“Yeah Angelo, they’ll be ready….You still in Palm Springs? My head ain’t feelin’ so great….Can I call you back?”

Ignoring my protests about the delicate state of my head, Angelo insisted on talking about the Taiwan Poultry Farmers’ Co-operative Bank business. “Never mind about your head Earl! We gotta talk figures. Funding for the first tranche is in place….”

I can’t believe that a New York Mafia boss is talking like a banker. It’s hard to imagine Angelo using banker speak to tell a trade union guy that he’s ‘expecting the first
tranche
of protection money on Friday’. Not that he speaks to anyone on the street anymore, he has lieutenants for that. Still, ‘tranche’ doesn’t sound right, not coming from Angelo. He hung up on me in the middle of a sentence. I don’t even remember what I was saying. I’m relieved anyway…he lost me at ‘tranche’.