The Collectors Book Six: Black Gold (The Collectors Series 6) (4 page)

              Henry had the greatest respect for the photographer as he removed from the top of the box a panoramic view of the breakers’ yard. In five minutes ten A1 size pictures of Goliath’s hull lay on the table. The rest he returned to the box.

              With painstaking care he checked the details. His initial thoughts had been correct. This was without any doubt Goliath. Tomorrow he needed to arrange a private chat with the owner of the ship breakers’ yard. He wandered over to the mini-bar and removed two tiny bottles of gin and a tonic.  The gin warmed as he resumed his appraisal of his next move.

Chapter Five

At the junction where Malaysia meets Singapore, a train arrived at Johor Bahru Sentral. Alan Hou experienced a moment of unease. The memories of his youth and the happy times spent with his mother and father lingered here. He shook his head, those days were gone. With a glance at his watch he headed for the exit.

              At a steady pace he walked to the DHL office shown on his map. Inside the collection point he waited in the short queue until it was his turn.

              “Package for Alan Hou,” he said to the male assistant.

              “Identification please, sir.”

              Alan removed his driving licence and passport. “Will these do?”

              The man gave them a quick glance before he disappeared into a back room to reappear moments later with a package. “Sign here please.”

              Alan signed and took the package. From his pocket he removed his iPhone and checked the address.

              Fifteen minutes later he lingered outside a ten story block of luxury apartments, looked up, turned and walked to the building opposite. He pressed the button for the lift to ascend to the top floor. From there he strolled to the flat roof. Huge hoardings covered the four cardinal directions. Each advertised a manufacturer of electrical goods.

              Again he checked the location of an apartment in the building opposite. His gaze shifted left and right. The picture of a woman advertising an airline as the best in the world suited his purpose. He opened the package and assembled the Russian Dragounov rifle.  Four holes in the head of the woman on the hoarding enabled him to zero in the weapon’s scope. Now he had time. With care he hid the weapon and went for something to eat and drink.

              As the sun began to set he returned to his position on the roof, made himself comfortable and examined the picture on his iPhone of Dai Lin, a man approaching sixty. He had long straight hair and a rather large nose. Bushy eyebrows which met in the middle did him no favours. The short, fat neck separated his head from a rotund body.

              Every five minutes Alan checked the apartment until the lights lit a large furnished room. Through his scope he saw his target come into focus and he had company, an attractive Eurasian girl. Why she was there was obvious as she removed her clothes. Naked, the girl sat on the edge of a table while the man disrobed.

              He fixed the tripod on the roof edge and positioned his body to form a line of sight. With the crosshairs quartering the man’s head he filled his lungs, exhaled and breathed out. His finger touched the trigger ready to squeeze. He pulled it and the butt of the rifle slammed back into his shoulder.

              He peered through the scope, the target lay close to the far wall of the room; his brains covered everything. To Alan’s surprise the girl remained calm and replaced her clothes as if nothing had happened. Her next move astonishment him as she began wiping the flat clean of her fingerprints. Her last act was to remove the man’s wallet from his jacket and shove it in her bag. As she left she turned the lights out.

              One minute later Alan was on the street. On passing a large refuse bin he dumped one part of the dismantled rifle. On reaching the station no piece of the weapon was in his possession. Half an hour later he sat and read his book as the train journeyed to Kuala Lumpur.

Chapter Six

Ryan Banga took pride in his appearance. His black turban was of the finest silk as was his white monogrammed shirt. The office, like the man, was extravagant in every respect, depicting his wealth. He squeezed his large frame into the custom-made chair and studied the financial information on the computer screen. Snug in his pristine office, located in landscaped gardens on the edge of his ship-breaking yard, the noise of jack-hammers and steel saws never penetrated. One million rupees made the space sound-proof.

              His wealth swelled by the day as his nation’s appetite for steel grew. Having progressed from a poor background living in the slums of Mumbai, Ryan was proud of his achievements. Self-educated, he possessed the talent for spotting a good deal even if crooked. He thrived on his company’s ever-increasing profits. The deal with the man in Johor Bahru was his most lucrative to date.

              In the distance, and through a treble-glazed window, plumes of black acrid smoke spiralled into the sky. The filth and squalor of his workforce never concerned him.

              At three in the afternoon, Ryan drove his restored 1961 Rolls-Royce Phantom V Chapron to his home. Located in a landscaped ten acre site, with stables, tennis courts, an over-sized swimming pool and hidden from view by trees, the servants’ apartments. He enjoyed the drive and always parked the vehicle in the spacious garage himself. Servants waited ready to polish and remove any blemish.

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Henry Wood waited in the shadows to the side of the hotel entrance. A taxi stopped, the driver jumped out. “Wood?”

              “That’s me.”

              The man handed him a package. “A present from home. Your eyes only.”

              He grabbed the parcel, waited for the taxi to disappear and strolled around the hotel grounds before returning to his room.

              After reading the transcript of a profile on Ryan Banga, he pitied the workers. Ryan believed he was God on earth.

              Sat in a luxurious armchair, Henry stared out of the window as his mind mulled over the next problem. A good night’s sleep beckoned. Within minutes of his head touching the pillow he slept.

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Henry awoke and was the first guest to arrive for breakfast.

              At the hotel entrance and with twenty other tourists, he waited for the coach to take them on a guided tour of the ship-breaking yards.

              The aging vehicle arrived on time. The well-dressed driver spoke several languages and welcomed each of his passengers prior to their boarding.

              As the suspension coped with bumps and pot holes the driver gave a well practiced commentary of the area. He appeared to enjoy blasting his horn at bicycles, local buses overflowing with people and cows. Lorries over-filled with scrap iron criss-crossed the road. Henry took note of the warren of scrambled streets and urban decay.

              Once clear of the town the road surface improved and the driver made good time.  They passed a few farms and after fifty-five minutes entered an expanse of shops and warehouses. The coach stopped at the end of a concrete jetty.

              As far as Henry could see, rusting hulls and ragged superstructures littered the beach for miles. He listened to the thunder of hammers striking metal. Ancient winches groaned as they strained to drag forgotten ships closer to their end.

              A young man clambered on board and informed everyone he was to be their guide and to stay close.

              Henry jumped to the ground and grabbed the young man by the arm. “I’d rather scour these warehouses and shops,” he pointed, “for a bargain than join the tour.”

              “American? I give you my uncle’s mobile telephone number. Call him, he know everyone and gives good bargain.”

              Henry took the card. “Thank you. I’ll give him a call. Where can I buy hot tea?”

              “The red metal-roofed building serves tea and has an excellent menu for food, sir. I always eat there. Very good.”

              “Thank you.”

              Henry walked towards the building, stopped, checked his hand-drawn map and turned left. He continued along a narrow path which wound between corrugated iron shacks. With long strides he turned right into a lane where a few metres ahead a young boy barred his way. “English?”

              “American. I’m looking for Mr Allan Patel.”

              The boy grinned from a mouth where half the teeth were missing. “My father told me wait and take you to our business premises. It is not safe for you to walk these streets. Follow me.”

              They entered a wooden-framed structure. Next to a mountain of chairs sat a fat man drinking tea.

              “Welcome to my collection of ship memorabilia,” said the round, flabby-faced owner. Steel-rimmed glasses perched near the end of his nose made him appear an intellectual. “My office has much to offer an investor. Please, this way. ”

              The back room resembled a ship’s cabin but larger than a state room, with brass portholes along the outside wall. Luxury couches with gilded legs lined another wall and a monster of a television was mounted on a steel frame. The smallness of the mahogany desk appeared odd.

              “Would you like some tea? I’ll have the boy make it fresh.”

              Henry nodded. “Thank you.”

              “You have my expenses?”             

              “Do you have my information?”

              “I have a long report on the activities of Ryan Banga. It’s not that interesting. The man has more money than he or his children will ever spend. He treats human beings as animals and abuses the women who succumb to his bribes. These he buggers in a brutal manner before discarding them as one would rubbish.”

              “Keep in mind I’m a skilled intelligence operative with fingers in many pies. Is there an easy line of attack?”

              The man opened a drawer and removed a pistol. “It is silenced and loaded with copper-tipped bullets. One in the head should be sufficient. Dump it when you have executed him. You must move fast, my friend. I have information he will take a young girl to his usual spot in the woods tomorrow a
fternoon.

             
Henry checked the safety catch was on before he shoved the weapon into his trouser pocket. “Show me where and I’ll be waiting.”

              “Why hurry? Let’s eat lunch and after take a drive.” Allan shouted and a woman dressed in casual western clothing entered carrying a large platter of a vegetarian rice curry. This she placed on a round table carried by the boy.

              “My wife, and son will be joining us for lunch.”

              When the last scrap of food left the platter, green tea was served.

              “Excellent,” said Henry, “but we’re wasting time.”

              “No hurry,” said Allan. “I will take you to where he misuses women.” He peered through the nearest porthole at the sky; the afternoon remained warm and bright. “Today is ideal for a drive in the country. Come, my car is a few streets away.”

              The two men talked as they strolled through the narrow streets. Five minutes later they stopped at a modern steel garage. Its door opened with the remote in Allan’s right hand.

              “What happens if the power fails?”

              “Battery back-up. In this town I trust no one. My car is a vintage Morris Oxford made in India. To a collector it’s a king’s ransom.”

              “If it has four wheels, an engine and goes, I don’t care what it is.”

              Allan shrugged. “You have no soul. Jump in.”

              The garage door closed behind them as they drove along a lane towards the main road. Allan pointed. “Ryan’s house is fifteen kilometres in that direction.”