The Solitary Man (39 page)

Ahead of him, Hutch saw the motorcycles turn off the main highway and into a narrow road which was blocked solid with traffic. The motorcycles bumped up on to the pavement and roared along it in single file, scattering pedestrians. Hutch THE SOLITARY MAN 317 was the fifth in the convoy, and Harrigan was on the bike behind him.

Two monks carrying black bowls jumped into the road to get out of the way. Each of the riders nodded an apology as they went by. A makeshift restaurant had been set up on the pavement, where an old man and an even older woman were serving pork and noodles. The bike at the head of the convoy smashed through the tables and stools, knocking over the charcoal burner and a huge stainless-steel pot of water. The boiling liquid splashed over one of the workmen who'd been spooning noodles into his mouth and he fell backwards, screaming in agony. As Hutch rode by, so close that the tyres were only inches away from the man's head, he could see that the water had gone over most of his chest.

At the end of the road was a hump-backed bridge over a canal and the motorcycle convoy raced across it. Below, a water-taxi flashed by, black smoke belching from its engine. The traffic tailed off and soon the motorcycles were racing along at more than sixty miles an hour, the wind whipping through Hutch's hair and tugging at his shirt. They turned sharply to the left and roared alongside the canal, past wooden homes on stilts and groups of children splashing and playing in the filthy water. Hutch looked to his left, back across the bridge. No one was following them, but he was unable to relax. It could all still go wrong.

They left the canalside after half a mile and turned down another road, little more than a dirt track that ran between ramshackle homes. Bare-chested men, and women in threadbare T-shirts and cotton dresses, watched them go, and naked children waved and jumped up and down as if they were a parade passing. Ahead of them was a corrugated-iron fence, flecked with rust as if it had been there for several years. Truck tyre tracks led to a gap several yards wide halfway along it. The motorcycles went through, one at a time. Inside was a building site. Work seemed to have stopped, because there were no workmen around and the site had an air of neglect.

Bird was already there, standing by the side of his Kawasaki and removing his full-face helmet. He waved at Hutch. 'Perfect, huh?' he said, dropping his helmet on the ground next to the bike and pulling off his gloves.

'Nobody was supposed to get hurt,' said Hutch, climbing off his bike. The driver dismounted, too, and pushed the motorcycle over to Bird's Kawasaki. He let it fall sideways and it crashed to the ground. The rest of the motorcyclists were dumping their machines all around Bird's bike, and stripping off their helmets, gloves and vests. The men with masks were already piling into four nondescript saloon cars.

'It wasn't our fault,' said Bird. 'He fired first. You saw what he did. He killed one of our men.'

'It looked to me like you killed him, Bird.'

Bird walked over to Hutch, his shoulders hunched and his arms at his side like a gunfighter preparing to draw. He stood so close that Hutch could smell his garlic-tainted breath. 'He was dying. He'd have died if we'd tried to move him. If we'd left him, the police might have got to him.' He glared at Hutch as if daring him to argue. Hutch nodded slowly, but he wasn't admitting defeat, only that Bird had a point. Bird stared at him for several seconds, then he went over to a battered red Nissan pick-up truck and took a petrol can out of the back. Next to the truck were two wooden pallets and crates of leafy green vegetables.

Bird unscrewed the top off the can and began pouring it over the motorcycles. 'Anyway, it's too late to argue about it now,' he said dismissively. 'We got you out, that's all that matters.'

Hutch took a deep breath. Bird was right. There was nothing he could say that would change what had happened.

Harrigan came over, holding his handcuffed arms out to Hutch. 'Can you get these things off me?' he whined.

'I'll have to do it later,' said Hutch. 'I gave the picks to Joshua.'

'What the fuck for?' asked Harrigan.

'Because he saved my life, that's why,' said Hutch. 'What do we do now, Bird?'

Bird had emptied the can over the bikes. He tossed it on to the pile and looked around to check that he hadn't forgotten anything. 'The truck,' he said. Hatch looked at the Nissan and frowned. Anticipating his objections, Bird waved at the crates. 'The two of you lie down and we'll cover you up.'

'For how long?' asked Hutch.

'An hour. We've got a safe house fixed up about forty miles outside Bangkok. That's where we'll meet Billy.'

Hutch nodded. 'Come on,' he said to Harrigan. The two of them walked over to the pick-up truck and lay face down in the back. Two of the men placed the pallets over them. The bases had been cut away so that the slats of wood were an inch or so above their backs. The men began stacking the crates on the pallets. It was soon dark and claustrophobic. Bits of soil fell down on them. It was like being buried alive, Hutch realised. He fought back the feelings of panic. He forced himself to breathe slowly and kept telling himself it would only be for an hour or so. There was a loud whooshing sound followed by a series of explosions as the motorcycle tanks ignited. Bird climbed into the cab of the pickup truck and started the engine.

TIM CARVER TAPPED OUT the number of Jake Gregory's satellite phone. Carver was in the DEA's Secure Communications Room and he was alone. One of the analysts had been on the line to the agency's Fort Lauderdale office in Florida and Carver had had to wait until he'd finished. There was a series of clicks, then a long pause followed by more clicks. Eventually there was a ringing tone. It rang out for a full minute before the phone was answered. It wasn't Gregory. Carver explained who he was and where he was calling from.

'He's briefing the helicopter crews,' said the voice at the other end of the line. The line broke up and Carver couldn't hear what else the man said.

'I didn't catch that,' said Carver.

'He's briefing the Apache crews, he'll be back in about half an hour.'

Carver sat bolt upright as if he'd been electrocuted. 'Can you get him to call me?' he said. 'As soon as he's finished.'

'Affirmative,' said the voice. The line went dead. Carver sat staring at the communications console. Something didn't make sense.

IT WAS STIFLINGLY HOT lying under the crates, the metal of the pick-up truck as hot as a griddle against Hutch's chest and the front of his legs. Something small with lots of legs fell on to his hair and he shook his head to the side to throw it off. He felt as if he'd been lying in the truck for hours but it was too dark to see his watch so he had no idea how much time had truly passed.

They'd driven over rough ground for several miles, dirt tracks probably, and then they'd driven fast and straight for a long time, which Hutch reckoned was probably the expressway, heading north. They'd been stuck in a traffic jam for a long time, and at one point he'd heard Thai voices, brusque with authority, and Bird's muffled voice replying. The traffic had picked up speed after that and the air around them had become progressively hotter and less breathable.

'I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to stand this,' said Harrigan. 'My throat's burning up.'

'It can't be much longer,' said Hutch.

For a while the only sound was the growl of the Nissan's diesel engine and the ragged breathing of the two men. 'I'm sorry about what I said, about the picks,' said Harrigan.

'No problem,' said Hutch.

'I was scared.'

'So was I. Forget it.'

'It was messy back there, wasn't it?'

Hutch turned his head towards Harrigan. He could just about make out the shape of the man's head. 'You've seen people die before, haven't you? You were in the IRA, right?'

There was a soft laugh, then a sniff. 'The IRA isn't just about killing people, Hutch. It's an entire organisation. There are active service units that carry out the dirty jobs, but they're the minority. I never saw anyone huri, much less killed.'

Hutch slid his arms up so that he could rest his head on them. 'Yeah, it was messy. It wasn't supposed to be, but it was.'

'Where did you learn to pick locks?'

Hutch smiled in the darkness. 'I was a locksmith in another life. I was one of the guys you'd call if you forgot your keys.'

'And how did you get involved in this?'

'It's a long story. A very long, very sad story.'

'They're paying you?'

'Maybe. But that's not why I'm doing it.'

'What then?'

'You really want to know?'

'Sure.'

'Billy Winter's blackmailing me. If I don't get you out, I go back to prison in the UK.'

'You were in prison?' said Harrigan, surprised.

'I did four years,' said Hutch. 'And I had another twenty-one to do before I got out.'

'You escaped?'

'Three times. But I only got clean away the last time.'

'From where?'

'Parkhurst. On the Isle of Wight. Some of your mob were there.'

'What did you do, Hutch?'

'I didn't do anything.'

'You got twenty-five years in Parkhurst for nothing?'

Hutch snorted. 'Life's a bitch, isn't it?'

The truck turned to the left, braked hard, then bumped over some rough ground and came to a halt. 'Sounds like we've arrived,' said Hutch. There was a grating, metallic noise and the truck edged forward a few feet. The grating noise was repeated, though this time it had a hollower ring to it. Hutch guessed they had driven inside a building. He heard the truck doors open and then the crates were bundled off. Fluorescent light streamed in and the two men covered their eyes.

Hutch rolled over and sat up. Bird was standing next to the truck, grinning. 'Did you hear them at the checkpoint?' he said.

'The police?' asked Hutch.

'Yeah. They were searching all the vehicles on the expressway. They didn't even think of checking the back.'

Harrigan sat up, grunting with the effort. 'Where's Billy?' he asked.

Bird held up a mobile phone. 'I'll call him now. He wanted to stay out of the way until we were sure you're safe.'

'Yeah, that's Billy all right,' said Hutch. 'He was only ever caught with the goods once, and he swore it would be the last time.' He gestured at Harrigan's handcuffs. 'Have you got a file or something I can use to cut the cuffs?'

Bird pointed at a workbench and a rack of tools. 'Help yourself,' he said.

BILLY WINTER PUSHED HIS sunglasses up on the top of his head and sat up. He reached for the ringing mobile phone on the table by his lounger and looked at his wrist watch. Bang on time. 'Yeah?' he said.

'We're here,' said Bird.

'Any problems?' asked Winter.

'Nothing major. We lost one man.'

'Not one of mine?'

Bird's voice was cold. 'No, Billy. One of mine.'

Winter pulled a face as he realised he'd said the wrong thing. 'Sorry, Bird. I wasn't thinking. I'll be there in an hour. What's the traffic like?'

'Locked solid both ways. You won't get here in an hour, Billy. It'll take at least two. Three maybe.'

'How are the guys?'

'They're okay. Harrigan doesn't look too good, but we'll clean him up before you get here.'

'Good man. Thanks, Bird. And well done.'

Winter cut the connection and put the phone back on the table. A young poolboy in a gleaming white uniform with gold buttons came over with a brandy and Coke on a tray. Winter beamed up at him. It was early, they were still serving breakfast in the coffee shop, but Winter felt that he'd earned a celebratory drink. The poolboy put the condensation-beaded glass down on the table and handed the bill to Winter. Winter signed it with a flourish. 'It don't get much better than this, do it?' he said, handing it back.

THEY WERE IN A two-storey house with rough wooden floors and whitewashed walls. There was a bare minimum of furniture and nothing of a personal nature, except for a poster of the King of Thailand pinned to one of the living-room walls. Hutch sat on a cheap plastic sofa and rested his feet on a square coffee table while Harrigan slumped into an armchair. The blinds were drawn and the lights were on% and an air-conditioner set into the wall buzzed and whirred.

Bird came in and threw Hutch a can of lager. 'Thanks,' said | Hutch. Bird said nothing and turned away. Hutch realised something was wrong. He suddenly knew what it was: Thais 1 didn't like feet on furniture, or feet being used to point. He slid the offending limbs off the table and popped open the can of lager, draining half of it in several thirsty gulps.

1^ 'There's a bathroom upstairs if you want to shower,' said 1 Bird.

'I'm okay,' said Hutch.

I 'It'll be your last chance for a while,' said Bird. 'There aren't 1 many bathrooms where we're going.'

� Hutch shrugged and began to work away with the hacksaw at the handcuffs on his right wrist. It would take time, but he'd get through them eventually.

Harrigan held up his chained hands. 'How about taking these off for me?' he asked.

Bird pulled his gun from out of his belt and pointed it at Harrigan. 'I could try shooting them off,' he said, sighting along the barrel.

Harrigan jumped out of his chair. 'Jesus Christ, Bird, stop fucking around!' he yelled. He kept moving, skipping around the room like a startled rabbit.

Bird laughed throatily. 'English humour,' he said, and put the gun away.

Harrigan stopped moving and glared at Bird. 'I'm Irish,' he hissed. 'And either way, it's not fucking well funny.'

nr 324 STEPHEN LEATHER Bird pulled a face. He took a pair of bolt-cutters from his back pocket. 'I'll use these instead,' he said. 'Unless you don't think they're funny enough.'

Harrigan held his arms out. 'Ha, ha, bloody ha,' he said.

Bird cut one of the links and then gave him a metal file.

Harrigan went over to Hutch and watched him sawing through the metal shackle. 'Can't you pick them?' Harrigan asked.

Hutch didn't look up. 'If I had the picks, maybe. But this'll be quicker. The sooner you start, the sooner you'll finish.'