The Tunnel Rats (53 page)

She moved closer to Wright. The sun was behind her and Wright had to shade his eyes to look up at her. 'Actually, May, I can,' he said quietly. 'You probably won't believe me, but yes, I can appreciate what you went through.'

She continued to talk as if she hadn't heard what he'd said. 'Eventually I crawled out of my hiding place. I dug the earth away from my father with my bare hands. That's when I found the dogtags. Eckhardt, M. Max Eckhardt. I took the tags and reburied my father.'

'And you waited more than twenty years to find Eckhardt?'

She nodded. 'That's how long it took. And then I had to get 384 STEPHEN LEATHER him to tell me who his friends were, who he'd served with in Vietnam.'

'And to do that, you had to marry him?'

'I did what I had to do to avenge my father.'

'How could you do that?'

'How could I do what? Seduce him? Sleep with him? Every time I opened my legs to the man, I thought of what he'd done to my father and what I would one day do to him. The hatred kept me going.'

'For more than two decades?'

She shrugged. 'How long it took didn't matter. All that mattered was that my father's death was avenged. Now it's almost done. Soon I'll be able to rest.'

She knelt down and Wright flinched. She smiled, and used the knife to tear a slit up the leg of his trousers. She put the knife on the ground, then reached behind her back. Her hand reappeared with a green plastic pack. It was Doc's medical kit. She took out a piece of cotton wool and a bottle of iodine and cleaned his wound, smiling again when he winced with pain.

As she placed a dressing on the wound, Wright cleared his throat. 'May Eckhardt, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Max Eckhardt.' The words sounded oddly stilted and he stumbled over the word 'murder'.

May smiled and brushed a stray lock of muddy hair from her face. She picked up her knife and slid it into its scabbard.

'You are not obliged to say anything, but--'

She placed a hand on his chin and kissed him softly on the cheek. 'Goodbye, Nick,' she said. 'Take care.'

She turned and walked away without a backward look. Wright slumped down against the wheel of the Mercedes and watched as the jungle swallowed her up.

His mobile phone began to ring again. He groped for it and put it to his ear. It was Tommy Reid. 'Hell's bells, Nick, where've you been?' asked his partner. 'I've been trying to get hold of you for hours. What have you been doing, fooling around with some gorgeous Asian babe?'

Wright's arm fell to the side and the mobile phone knocked against a small rock. He could still hear Reid talking, his voice THE TUNNEL RATS 385 buzzing like a trapped wasp. Wright threw back his head and began to laugh, louder and louder, until the laughter became an ugly, pain-filled scream that echoed around the jungle, quietening even the insects and birds.

1 Dean Burrow removed his reading glasses and surveyed the cheering crowd. There were more than five thousand people, and the sound of their clapping and shouting vibrated through his body like an earthquake tremor. He could understand why rock stars became addicted to performing; nothing came close to the sensation of being on the receiving end of the adulation of thousands of people. Placards praising his virtues and huge posters of his face were displayed at strategic intervals, placed to obtain maximum television coverage from the cameras that were scattered around the auditorium.

It had been the best speech Burrow had ever given; modest but farsighted, laying out his vision of a united, prosperous, caring America. Jody Meacher had done him proud. The only minor criticism that Burrow had raised was that the speech seemed more suited to a presidential campaign, but Meacher had just smiled at that. Both men knew that the Vice President's job was just a stepping stone.

Burrow put up a hand to acknowledge the cheers, then turned to look at his wife. She smiled on cue, the pride and admiration pouring out of her, a look as practised as any of Burrow's gestures. Flashes went off as the assembled photographers captured the image. That would be the one splashed across the morning editions of the world's newspapers. That or the picture of the President shaking his hand, congratulating him on becoming the second most powerful man in the world.

The cheering began to die down and Burrow put his glasses on. He had considered wearing contact lenses, but Meacher had disagreed, pointing out that the glasses gave Burrow a more serious air, adding maturity but not detracting from his looks. The time would come when Burrow would want to lose the glasses and 386 STEPHEN LEATHER some of the grey that was spreading through his hair, but that time was almost a decade away. Burrow had ceded to Meacher, knowing that when it came to image-making, Meacher was second to none.

Burrow looked across at the bank of television cameras that were transmitting the event around the world. It was all about image now. Getting elected was a matter of presentation, of media manipulation, of not making mistakes, and Jody Meacher would be there to guide him every step of the way. Burrow scanned the crowd as the cheering swelled again. Meacher's enthusiastic young team scattered through the audience would keep the applause going for a full two minutes before giving him the chance to continue his speech. Meacher wasn't in the auditorium, he was in an office upstairs watching the television coverage on a bank of monitors.

Burrow held up both hands as if trying to quieten the audience down. He knew it was futile; Meacher had stipulated the two minutes at rehearsal and there was nothing Burrow could do to change the programme. The gesture showed modesty, though, humility, even. Burrow smiled and gave a small shrug as if finally accepting that there was nothing he could do to stop the applause.

He waved at the audience. It was a good mixture: nobody too old, nobody too young, nobody too black, nobody too disabled. A camera-friendly melting pot that showed how all America was behind the new Vice President.

Suddenly Burrow stiffened. An unsmiling face glared at him with undisguised hatred, an Oriental woman with high cheekbones and shoulder-length hair. Her eyes bored into his as if she was staring into his soul. Burrow swallowed. The crowd around the woman cheered and waved, but she sat motionless, her lips set tight, her arms folded across her chest.

Burrow looked around to see if any of his Secret Service agents had noticed her. There were six of them, all in dark suits with radio earpieces and dark glasses, strategically placed around the stage. They were all scanning the audience but none appeared to be looking in the direction of the woman. There was nothing he could do to attract their attention, not with the world's cameras aimed at him.

Vw,

He forced himself to smile and turned back to face the audience The woman had gone. He couldn't even find the place in tlie croW where she'd been. Burrow's smile widened and he raised r>oth arms in a victory salute. The cheering welled around him. Ma.ybe he'd imagined her. Besides, he had nothing to worry about. He was the Vice President of the United States of America and only one man in the country was better protected. He had nothing to Fear froin a sullen-faced Oriental woman. Nothing.