The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (40 page)

The men walked back through the crowds streaming out of the racecourse. There was a row of Mercedes and Rolls-Royces awaiting their wealthy owners and taxis with their roof lights on were having no trouble touting for business. When they reached the hotel they were sweating from the exertion of walking uphill in the hot, moist air and Tyler invited them all up to his suite for a drink.

There was a small, circular table on the patio and the vets gathered chairs around it and sat down, laughing and joking about the night’s racing while Tyler fetched them cans of Carlsberg, Tsing Tao and San Miguel from the mini-bar fridge.

When they all had a beer in front of them the conversation gradually died and they waited expectantly for Tyler to speak. Far below the floodlights still illuminated the racetrack and the air was buzzing with the sound of thousands of people making their way home. Tyler stood behind his chair, leaving his beer on the table. He stood for a while and looked down on the throngs in the streets below and then switched his glance to the five men, looking at them one by one and nodding at each as if acknowledging them for the first time.

“I suppose you’ve all realised by now that the visit to the track wasn’t just a chance to win money.” He smiled at Carmody. “Or to lose it.” The vets laughed, and Lewis slapped Carmody’s leg. “When I approached you all in Bangkok, I made it clear that what I have planned is a robbery. A big one. One of the biggest. And tonight you’ve all seen that there’s a stack of money at the Happy Valley track, there for the taking. You don’t have to have an IQ above room temperature to put two and two together. What you gentlemen have to decide is whether or not you want to take part. There’s obviously a limit to how much I can tell you before you decide whether or not to commit yourself, but I can give you a few basic facts.”

He took a mouthful of beer from his can of San Miguel. “More money is wagered at the racetrack in Hong Kong than anywhere else in the world. The average amount wagered at a race meeting is 725 million HK dollars – that’s about ninety million US dollars.”

“Excuse me, Colonel, that’s ninety million US dollars during the season, right?” interrupted Carmody.

Tyler shook his head. “That’s a negative, Larry. Betting turnover for the season is more than seventy billion HK dollars. In US dollar terms that’s almost ten billion. The record take for one raceday is more than 900 million HK dollars; 115 million US dollars. Think about that, gentlemen. Savour those numbers.”

Lewis whistled softly and Lehman nodded slowly.

“Now, not all that money sits at the racetrack. The average attendance at the track is about 36,000, as I told you before. Another 10,000 or so place bets at the Shatin track while racing goes on down there. But one million bets are placed at the Jockey Club’s off-course betting centres which are spread all over the colony. And another half a million bets are phoned in. But even so, more cash is bet at that track than anywhere else in the world. Gentlemen, I have a foolproof plan to acquire a sizable portion of that money. I already have a number of associates but I need your particular expertise to ensure that the operation proceeds successfully. I can’t tell you any more until you decide whether or not you wish to enlist.”

He put down his beer and surveyed the five men. “Gentlemen, it’s time to shit, or get off the pot.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited.

Carmody was the first to speak. “I’m in, Colonel,” he said. Carmody looked around the faces of the four other men. Lewis was nodding. So was Doherty.

Lewis and Carmody looked at Lehman. He shrugged. “I wouldn’t have come to Hong Kong if I hadn’t already decided that I was in,” he said.

“Way to go!” said Carmody, and Lewis reached over to shake his hand.

Tyler looked at Horvitz, who seemed to be the only one of the five who was actually thinking about the proposition. He seemed to be mentally wrestling with himself, his forehead deeply lined. In the distance dogs were barking from the hillside that loomed above the hotel. Horvitz’s eyes seemed to blank out as he thought, then he lifted his chin and grinned. “Yeah, I’m in,” he said. “You can count me in.”

Tyler smiled. He walked through into his bedroom, lifted his suitcase and hefted it on to the bed. He flicked its catches and took something from inside. The vets watched him curiously. Whatever he had taken from the case he held behind his back as he went back to the patio.

“I knew before we arrived in Hong Kong that we’d make a good team, and I expected you’d all say that you wanted to take it further. But you have to understand that we have now reached the point of no return. You can’t say that you want to go ahead with this and then decide later that you want to drop out. If you have any doubts, any doubts at all, then now is the time to express them and to walk away. At the moment all you know is where. You don’t know when, or what the plan is, or who else will be taking part. We can part now as friends and I won’t feel threatened. You don’t know enough to be a danger to me or to my plans. You can take the money I’ve given you and go back to your lives in the States.”

From behind his back he took a large handgun. He held the butt with his right hand and caressed the barrel with his left. The gun dwarfed his hand. It was a powerful gun, a Smith & Wesson Model 19 Combat Magnum weighing thirty-five ounces. He’d picked it up earlier in the day, before he’d checked in at the hotel.

“If you go now, there’ll be no hard feelings. But if you try to leave once the operation is under way, there will be only one way out.” He nodded his head at the gun. “Gentlemen, if you have any doubts, any doubts at all, then go now.”

The five vets sat in silence, all of them looking at the menacing weapon. Tyler looked at them, searching for any sign of reluctance. He saw none, and smiled.

“Very well. From this moment on consider yourself on the payroll. I’ll now take any questions you may have.”

Horvitz took his eyes off the Smith & Wesson and ran his hand along his chin. “Yeah, I’ve got a question,” he said. “When do we do it?”

Tyler smiled. “Happy Valley’s busiest day,” he said. “The last race of the season.”

Lehman nodded. “I’ve a question. How do we get away? How do we get away with the money once we’ve got it?”

Tyler walked across the patio and rested his hands on the wall. He felt rather than saw the rest of the vets get up and follow him, standing behind him in a semicircle and looking down at the track. Tyler pointed at the grandstand, and then raised his hand up skywards, between the towering apartment blocks. “We get away the same way we used to in Nam,” he said quietly. “We fly.”

Anthony Chung had long held the view that the best Cantonese food in Hong Kong was to be had at the Dynasty Restaurant in the New World Hotel in Kowloon. Pretty much everything about the restaurant was perfect: the service was impeccable, the decor was smart with none of the tacky glitz that spoiled so many of the local restaurants, and the food was always superb. Chung had never tasted river fish as fresh and succulent as was served at the Dynasty, and even their steamed rice was a step above anything else that could be obtained in the city.

The captain greeted him warmly by name and escorted him to a corner table set for three. He waited until Chung was seated before snapping out a white napkin and placing it over his lap and handing him two menus, a regular à la carte menu and an additional one with the chef’s specials.

“Your usual?” the captain asked. He was young, in his late twenties with slicked-back hair and a ready smile, and he never forgot the name or the preferences of his regular clients.

“Please,” said Chung. As the captain left, Chung glanced around the restaurant. As usual it was virtually full; he wasn’t alone in appreciating the high standards of the Dynasty’s chefs. He recognised faces at several of the tables: a sprinkling of high-powered businessmen with their wives or mistresses, the editor of one of the city’s leading Chinese newspapers, and two successful horse trainers. There were tourists, too, probably eating there because they were staying at the hotel and not aware they were dining in one of Hong Kong’s premier restaurants. He’d seen tourists asking why chow mein wasn’t on the menu, or ordering four portions of the same dish and each eating their own with a fork while the waitresses giggled in the kitchen.

A smiling waitress came over with his brandy and ice. She was pretty, with long wavy hair and large eyes and a good figure which was accentuated by the tight-fitting green and gold
cheung sam
she wore. Chung watched her hips move under the dress as she walked away. As she went through the double swing doors that opened into the kitchen, Chung saw his guests arrive at the entrance to the restaurant. The man was short and portly, his face pockmarked with old acne scars; straggling hairs grew from a mole on his round chin. His face was virtually circular, his nose a small bump in its centre, the fleshy lips forming a straight line until he smiled. His distinctive features had led to Paul Chau being saddled with the nickname “Pizza Face” at school, but he had had the last laugh on his schoolmates. He’d gone on to become one of Hong Kong’s most successful – and richest – showbiz agents, and he had some of the city’s most glamorous actresses and singers as his clients and companions, a five million dollar house on the Peak and a Canadian passport. The suit he was wearing had clearly cost several thousand dollars and even across the restaurant Chung could see the glint of a gold Rolex on his left wrist.

The four businessmen sitting at the table next to Chung all turned to get a better look at the new arrivals, but it wasn’t Chau who had attracted their attention. It was his companion they were straining to look at, a truly stunning girl, tall and willowy in a figure-hugging black dress which ended a couple of inches above shapely knees and which was cut to reveal tanned shoulders and an expensive gold necklace. Her hair was up, showing a long neck and small ears and a pair of dangling, gold earrings which swung gently as she moved her head. She was used to being admired. Though Chung hadn’t actually seen any of the four movies she’d appeared in, Chau had told him that Yo-yo Yip was one of Hong Kong’s rising starlets. Ten months ago she’d won a Miss Photogenic award in a beauty competition run by one of the local television stations and Chau had arranged for her to be signed up by a major Hong Kong film studio. Hong Kong film-makers rarely took more than a month to put together a movie and the stars on the payroll of the big studios worked seven days a week, often shooting several films at the same time. The films were shown in local cinemas and then sold on to Taiwan and Singapore, but returns on the movies were nowhere near that of Hollywood blockbusters and the Hong Kong stars were poorly paid by comparison. It often took budding starlets like Yo-yo several years of hard work before they earned serious money, but they usually had expensive tastes and were short on patience. Many were amenable to taking a few short cuts to increase their bank balances.

Yo-yo walked down the restaurant, following the captain. Behind her Chau kept a hand on her waist like a trainer leading his favourite racehorse out of the paddock. She didn’t look to the right or left as she walked but Chung knew that she was all too well aware of the effect she was having on the men at the tables. Some of them obviously recognised her – Chau had said that her last appearance in a kung-fu comedy had earned good reviews and she’d been featured on several magazine covers as a result – but others were just looking because she was such a stunning beauty: high cheekbones, rosebud mouth and wide eyes which seemed to be half closed.

Chung got to his feet before she reached the table. He shook hands with Chau who then introduced him to Yo-yo.

“You look even prettier than you do on screen,” Chung said to her in Cantonese.

She smiled prettily, showing white, even teeth that could have graced a toothpaste advertisement. “You saw my last movie?” she asked.

“Of course,” lied Chung. Chau had briefed him on her last two films and the roles she’d played.

“What did you think?” she asked as the captain helped her into her chair.

“You were marvellous,” said Chung. “I thought you handled the comedy really well, too. Did you do the action scenes yourself?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. And I’ve still got the bruises.” She giggled and raised a hand to cover her mouth.

Chau took his seat and ordered a Heineken for himself and a Perrier for Yo-yo. “Nice suit, Anthony,” he said approvingly.

“Armani,” Chung said. He’d worn it because he knew Chau would notice and comment on it, and because it would be a name that Yo-yo would be sure to recognise. Chau had said that he would arrange the introduction, but it would be up to the girl how the evening developed. It was important to make the right impression.

Their drinks arrived and the waitress smiled at Chung again. “Do you have any preferences?” he asked Yo-yo.

“I love shark’s fin soup,” she said. “And seafood. All seafood.”

“Seafood is a great aphrodisiac,” said Chau. “Especially oysters.”

Yo-yo smiled coyly. “I love oysters,” she said. She saw Chung smiling and averted her eyes. Chung had the distinct impression that she was playing out a scene from one of her movies.

The captain returned to take their order: a large steamed grouper, prawns in hot and spicy sauce, shark’s fin soup with chicken, roast duck and plum sauce, baked aubergine in garlic, and their special white rice. Yo-yo asked if they had
bat choi tsari
, a vegetable she was especially fond of, but the captain apologised, saying that they had only
bat choi
, a larger variety. She pouted, her eyes magically became moist, and the captain stammered that he’d go and have a word with the chef and see what could be arranged; she wasn’t to worry, if they didn’t have any in the restaurant he would personally go out and get some. She smiled bravely and thanked him. She was, Chung had to admit, drop dead gorgeous.