The Solitary Man (33 page)

'That's brilliant,' said Joshua.

'Thanks,' said Hutch, and went back to sit on his mat. The Nigerian went with him.

'Will it open all the cell doors?' asked Joshua as Hutch began filing.

'Yeah, they use the same key for all the cells,' said Hutch. 'Otherwise the guards would have to carry dozens of keys.'

It took almost an hour of careful filing before Hutch tried again. This time the key turned slightly before meeting an obstruction. He used another five matches to blacken the key. There were only two places where the key had been blocked. He spent another hour filing. On the third attempt the lock turned.

Joshua slapped Hutch on the back, hard enough to rattle his teeth. 'You've done it!' he hissed.

Hutch gestured for the Nigerian to keep quiet. Life slipped off his training shoes. 'If the guards come upstairs, whistle.' Joshua nodded. Hutch pulled the door open and stepped on to the catwalk. He moved on tiptoe, keeping close to the cells. All the cells ringing the catwalk had blankets or sheets fixed to the lower half of the bars, high enough to give them a little privacy but low enough so that the guards could still look in on their rounds. Hutch kept low so that the prisoners wouldn't see him. He took a quick look down into the courtyard. It was deserted. The Nigerian gave him a thumbs-up and Hutch continued along the catwalk.

Harrigan's cell was on the far side of the block, close to the corner. Hutch crept up and peered over the sheet. It was the first time that Hutch had seen inside one of the private cells, and he was amazed. The walls had been painted a light blue colour and had a light fitting with a low wattage bulb and a dark THE SOLITARY MAN 265 blue lampshade. There were curtains over the window and several items of furniture: a sofa, an easy chair and a wooden bookcase. It looked more like a cheap hotel room than a prison cell. There was a camp bed on either side of the cell. Harrigan was sitting on his bed, his head down as if in prayer. The Canadian was curled up on his bed, asleep.

Hutch ducked down and inserted his key into the door lock. It turned and clicked. Hutch relocked it and straightened up. Harrigan was still sitting up. He was doing something with his right hand, something that seemed to require a great deal of concentration. From somewhere behind him, Hutch heard a low whistle. It was Joshua. Harrigan took his right hand away from his left arm. He was holding a syringe. As Hutch watched, Harrigan loosened a tourniquet on his arm and sat back on his bed, his eyes closed. Joshua whistled again, more urgently this time. Harrigan opened his eyes and stared at Hutch. His mouth dropped open in surprise. There was a third whistle, followed by a fourth, louder and more insistent. Hutch bent double and ran along the catwalk back to his cell. Down below he could hear boots on the metal stairway.

Joshua had the cell door open and Hutch slipped inside, breathing heavily. A guard appeared at the top of the stairs and began to walk slowly along the catwalk. Joshua closed the cell door. Hutch put the key in the lock and turned. It wouldn't move.

Joshua frowned. 'What's wrong?' he whispered.

'It won't budge,' said Hutch. He tried again, but something inside the lock was stopping the key from turning. The footsteps got closer.

Joshua clapped Hutch on the shoulder and dragged him away from the cell door. They rushed to their sleeping mats and lay down. Hutch's heart was pounding and he was soaked with sweat. He rolled on his side, turning his face away from the bars. He strained to hear the guard's footsteps. Each step was painfully slow and Hutch had to fight the urge to look over his shoulder. He closed his eyes tight and willed the guard to keep on walking. The footsteps stopped and Hutch imagined the guard putting his hand on the door, pushing it. He imagined the door opening and the guard looking inside.

Then the footsteps started again and the guard moved on. Hutch breathed out.

'Close,' whispered Joshua from the other side of the cell. 'That was close.'

'Tell me about it,' said Hutch, his voice shaking.

'What was wrong with the key?'

Hutch picked up the file. 'It just needs a bit more work. It'll be fine.'

JAKE GREGORY STUDIED THE proffered tray of canapes, looking for anything with a calorie count of fewer than three figures. He searched in vain through smoked salmon whirls with cream cheese, hollowed-out boiled egg halves filled with caviar, and circles of toast piled high with foie gras. Gregory shook his head and the waitress looked at him sympathetically as if she understood what he was going through. A waiter hovered with a tray of fluted glasses but Gregory didn't care for champagne. 'Could you get me a Diet Coke, please?' he asked. The waiter nodded and disappeared.

Gregory surveyed the room with uninterested amusement: men in expensive tailored shirts and handmade suits, women in evening dresses and jewellery, just a standard midweek Washington cocktail party. In his off-the-peg blazer he felt like a grizzly bear that had wandered into a prayer meeting. John Mallen was at the far side of the room, holding court among a group of overweight movers-and shakers who appeared to be hanging on his every word. Gregory caught Mallen's eye and the Vice President nodded. Gregory went over to stand by the window. He watched the Vice President's reflection. He was smiling and appeared relaxed, but there was a tiredness about his eyes and he seemed to have lost weight.

'So what do you do?' asked a woman who appeared at his elbow.

Gregory turned to face her. She was in her mid-thirties, a slightly heavy brunette with large hazel eyes and a mocking smile as if she was well used to working a room.

'Commodities,' he said.

She smiled and sipped her champagne. 'And is business good?'

'Oh yes,' said Gregory. 'Business is always good.'

'Angela Spackman,' she said, offering her hand.

Gregory shook it. 'Jake Gregory.'

'And what brings you to this gathering, Jake?' she asked.

'A gold embossed invitation,' he said. 'You?'

'Oh, I work for a public relations company This is pure business.' She stood with her back to the window and surveyed the room. 'They did well to get Mallen here. He doesn't get out much these days. Not since his son died. He's practically a recluse.'

The waiter returned with Gregory's Diet Coke.

'You're not the champagne type, are you, Jake?' asked Angela. .

'You can tell, huh?' Mallen was making moves to extract himself from the group, patting one of the middle-aged men on the arm and nodding at another. 'You're going to have to excuse me, Angela. Duty calls.'

He left the woman and met Mallen in the middle of the room. They shook hands. 'Coke, Jake?' said the Vice President, nodding at his glass.

'Diet Coke,' said Gregory.

'Never could stand the aftertaste,' said Mallen. 'From the artificial sweetener.'

'You get used to it,' said Gregory. He sipped his drink and grimaced.

'It kills rats.'

Gregory held up his glass and stared at it. 'Diet Coke kills rats?'

'Not the drink, the sweetener. Gives them cancer. If they eat enough of it. I always reckon that you're safer with the sugar.' The Vice President was holding a glass of champagne but Gregory had yet to see him raise it to his lips. 'So, you have something to tell me?' said Mallen.

'We have a line to Zhou,' said Gregory. 'We hope to have his whereabouts identified shortly.'

'That's great news, Jake. I knew you'd come through. Everything else is in place?'

'It will be by the end of the week. I'm off to Myanmar tonight.' The Vice President frowned. Geography wasn't one of his strong points, Gregory knew. 'Burma,' he added. 'They call it Myanmar now.'

'Of course,' said Mallen.

'Did the request for assistance come through?'

Mallen nodded. 'A letter to the President, a personal plea that we help them in their fight against the drug lords of the Golden Triangle. The President will be sending an innocuous reply, a few platitudes, noting that the Burmese ... do they still call them Burmese or are they Myanmarians now?'

Gregory shook his head. He had no idea.

'Anyway, the letter stays on file, so your back. . . I mean our backs, of course ... are well covered. What about the helicopters?'

'They're on their way from South Korea, courtesy of the 4th Battalion, 501st Aviation Regiment.'

Mallen lifted his glass and toasted the DEA executive. 'I'm going to owe you one after this, Jake. You'll have a marker you'll be able to call in at any time. I mean that.' He gave Gregory the frank, open smile that gazed down from posters at election time, but there was something uneasy about the man's stare, something almost manic in its intensity. Mallen gripped Gregory's shoulder and squeezed it tightly. 'Let me know how it goes,' he said. 'Let me know as soon as that bastard is dead.'

'I will,' said Gregory.

The Vice President held Gregory's look for several seconds, then his gaze softened and he released his grip on his shoulder. Mallen walked away stiffly, his back ramrod straight as if he was having to carefully control his movements.

'Now I remember who you are,' said a voice at Gregory's shoulder. He turned to find Angela Spackman standing beside him. 'I wondered why the Vice President was so interested in a commodities dealer. You're that Jake Gregory, aren't you?'

Gregory shrugged. 'I'm a Jake Gregory,' he said.

'Of the DEA. I should have recognised you.'

'I try to keep a low profile,' said Gregory. A waitress stopped in front of them with yet another tray of canapes but Gregory waved her away.

'Still, I'm supposed to know everybody in this town. That's what I'm paid for.' She put her head on one side and looked at him with amused eyes. 'So, what does John Mallen want with the DEA?'

Gregory swirled his Diet Coke around its glass. 'Chit-chat,' he said. 'Nothing more.'

Angela smiled. She had full, generous lips and they parted to reveal perfect teeth. 'Don't try to kid a kidder, Jake. What are you doing after this?'

'What did you have in mind?'

She lowered her eyes in a gesture that was almost coquettish. 'Oh, I don't know. Dinner. Whatever.'

Gregory looked at his wristwatch and ran the numbers through his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I've got a plane to catch.'

She clinked her glass against his. 'Maybe next time,' she said.

Gregory ran the numbers through his head again. There was no way he could spare the time without missing his plane. 'You can bank on it, Angela,' he said.

HUTCH WALKED ACROSS THE courtyard, wiping his dusty hands on his shorts. Harrigan and the Canadian were sitting in their usual spot, their backs against the wall of the cell block and their legs stretched out in front of them. The Canadian was eating an orange. Before Hutch got close, Harrigan said something to the Canadian, who stood up and walked away. Harrigan squinted up at Hutch and scratched his left arm. Hutch knew that what he had thought were mosquito bites were in fact needle marks. There were more than a dozen on the arm.

'Are you ready to talk now?' asked Hutch.

Harrigan patted the ground next to him and Hutch sat down. 'How did you get the chains off so quickly?' asked the Irishman.

'Friends in high places.'

'Did they give you the key?'

'No. How long have you been using heroin?'

Harrigan shrugged. He stopped scratching his arm. 'Can you really get me out?'

'I can try.'

'And Billy Winter sent you in to get me?'

'Yeah. Sort of.'

Two trustys walked by, laughing. One of them was carrying a Frisbee. 'I thought they'd forgotten about me,' said the Irishman. 'I thought I was going to be in here for ever.'

'Is that why you started using?'

Harrigan ran his hands through his hair. 'It's been a year,' he said. 'You've no idea what it's like.'

Hutch thought about Harrigan's cell with its beds and curtains and bookcase. It wasn't exactly luxurious but it was a far cry from the rest of the cells in the block. Harrigan had it easy. 'Are you addicted? How long have you been injecting?'

'Not long,' said Harrigan.

'Can you stop?'

'I think so.' Harrigan's voice was hesitant, unsure.

'You're going to need a clear head, Ray.'

'Okay, okay. What's the plan? What are you going to do?'

'Come off the heroin first. Then I'll tell you.'

Harrigan looked across at Hutch. 'At least tell me when. Give me something to hold on to.'

Hutch got to his feet. 'Soon,' he said.

On his way back to the furniture factory, Hutch was intercepted by Pipop. 'Visitor,' said the trusty.

'Who?' asked Hutch. Pipop didn't reply, but started towards the administration block and Hutch followed him.

It was Bey. He nodded a greeting to Hutch and slid a pack of cigarettes across the table. Hutch sat down and slipped the pack into his pocket. The lawyer loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. There were three thick gold chains around his neck. He took them off and gave them to Hutch. They were heavy, each must have weighed at least two ounces.

'Is there anything else you require?' asked Bey.

Hutch shook his head as he fastened the chains around his neck. 'Give me the phone,' he said.

The lawyer took the mobile phone out of his briefcase, tapped in a number, and handed it to Hutch.

IWinter answered after half a dozen rings. 'Hutch, old lad, how's it going?'

'Why don't you come and see for yourself?' asked Hutch. ij Winter laughed throatily. 'You won't mind if I don't take you up on that offer, will you?' he said. 'You've met the boy?' 'He's a wreck, Billy. He's a sodding mess.' 'What do you mean?' 'He's injecting heroin.'

There was a silence lasting several seconds before Winter spoke again. 'How bad is he?'

'Like I said, he's a mess. Did you know?'

IWinter ignored the question. 'Can you sort him out?' 'Oh sure, Billy, I'll just enrol him in the Betty Ford Clinic. How the hell do you expect me to get him off heroin?' There was another silence. Hutch had a sudden urge to yell at Winter, to curse him for his stupidity, but he knew that shouting wouldn't I � get him anywhere. ' 'You can get him out, right?'