Thai Horse

  ‘A long time.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘In an alley in Boston.’

  ‘An alley?’

  ‘Yeah. I was breaking into a store and he was a cop.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Nope.’ Hatcher leaned back and realized he was about to give away some family secrets. He felt comfortable doing it.

  ‘My old man was an architect, and not a very good one. Blew his brains out in the shower of the Boston Men’s Club one afternoon. I was ten at the time. ‘Three years later my mother ran off with, uh, hell, I don’t even know, never saw the man. Anyway, I hit the bricks. By the time I was fifteen I was one of the best cat burglars in Boston.’

  ‘Why, Hatch, I had no idea,’ she said in amazement.

  ‘That’s just the tip of the iceberg,’ Hatcher said with a smile.

  ‘Well, what did Jimmy do to you when he caught you?’ Ginia probed.

  ‘He took off his badge and his gun belt, put them carefully on the sidewalk, and beat my ass to a bloody pulp.’

  Ginia broke up — she put her hands over her mouth and giggled into them.

  ‘And that’s not all. He got me a job; actually he got me three jobs, and I walked out on all three. So one night he grabs me, shoves me in this alley, off comes the badge and gun belt and he gives it to me again. Then he says, “I’m gonna keep whippin’ your ass until you hold a job and stop boosting my beat.” And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

  ‘He made you what you are today,’ she said with mock pride.

  ‘Yeah,’ Hatcher said and then added rather solemnly, ‘but the guy on the dock had a hand in it too.’

  ‘What did he catch you doing?’

  ‘Going for admiral,’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘That’s another story.’

  They ate the rest of the dinner in silence. Hatcher was not one to talk and eat, but she sensed something impending. She knew he was going before he said it.

  ‘I have to leave for a while.’

  ‘Uh-huh, and just what does that mean, Hatcher, “a while”? A week, a month, ten years?’ She asked it lightheartedly.

  He smiled and reached over and laid the palm of his hand softly on her cheek. ‘Longer than a week, hopefully less than a month,’ he answered.

  ‘Can I do anything for you?’

  ‘Call John Rogers at the bank and tell him I had to leave in a hurry. I’ve prepared a power of attorney for you so you can handle my market and bank accounts. If I should need money for any reason, shift funds at the bank into my drawing account.’

  ‘You trust me that much?’ she asked, surprised.

  He smiled at her. ‘Implicitly,’ he answered.

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘In the morning.’

  She smiled at him, but she was already beginning to feel the longing that went with his absences. ‘Then let’s not waste time,’ she said. ‘You can sleep on the plane.’

  He took her hand as she stood up and drew her close to him. He slowly unbuttoned her white button-down shirt, let it fall open, slipped his hands around her hips and drew her closer, kissing her hard stomach. Then loosening her belt and zipping down the fly, he slid her jeans off. He wrapped his arms tighter around her, his hands slipping under her buttocks, lifting her up slightly so that his thumbs slid under the edge of her panties, and began caressing her lightly with both thumbs, felt her tighten, felt her wetness as he gently probed while he moved his head lower, felt the hair under her panties, began to nibble very lightly while his hot breath caressed her. He spread his fingers up and drew down her panties and buried his face in her hair, smelling her sex, tasting her, felt her hands pressing his head harder into her. She stood on her toes, her head fell back and she sat on the edge of the table and put one leg over his shoulder. Her breath came faster, her muscles tightened, she began to move in tight little circles.

  She had this wonderfully erotic habit that drove Hatcher crazy. As she neared her climax she began to count, low, almost under her breath, gasping between the numbers:

  ‘One . . . two . . . three . . . f-fo-ur . . uh, oh-oh, m’God. . . five, six, seven. . . uh-huh. . . uh-huh.

  eight-nine-t-ten . . . my God, oh!’

  Her back arched and she jammed herself against his mouth and held herself taut for ten o r twelve seconds and then, gasping, she relaxed, collapsed forward and, wrapping both hands around his head, drew him up to her, searching for his mouth and, finding it, began kissing him ravenously.

  He picked her up and carried her back to the king-size bed in the sleeping cabin, laid her gently on the bed and stripped while he kissed her. Then he slid into bed beside her, drawing her tightly to him, and she felt him hard against her. She slipped one leg over his hip and pulled him to her, moving up until he entered her smoothly and without effort.

  ‘Oh God,’ he whispered as she surrounded him, tightening her muscles, sucking him in deeper and deeper and deeper.

  Still out of breath, she whispered, ‘A month, huh?’ and he whispered back, equally out of breath, ‘Maybe .

  just . . . a couple of weeks . .

  She lay on her side, dozing. Hatcher moved easily off the bed, pulled a down quilt over her and began to pack. There had been a time when Hatcher’s Gurkha bag was always packed and ready to go — two suits, a casual jacket and slacks, half a dozen shirts, a couple of ties, an extra pair of shoes and his underwear and toilet articles. Basics. No frills. And he quickly fell back into the routine of preparing for the trip.

  The mental checklist was still in his head: Check out his credentials, review his finances, select the right equipment, and pack everything into two pieces of luggage, his suit bag and an aluminum case, which he always hand-carried,

  While Ginia slept he slid back a panel in the bulkhead over the head of the bed, opened a safe built into the wall and took out a small strongbox. He carried it back to the main cabin and checked the contents. He took out a $50,000 letter of credit from his bank, $20,000 in traveler’s checks and $10,000 in cash. He never used credit cards, too easy to trace. He also took out two passports, one his valid U.S. passport, the other a forged French passport. Both identified him as a free-lance television journalist and cameraman. Then he returned the box to its hiding place.

  On the way back to the main salon, he got a medium- size aluminum Halliburton case from the closet and carried it forward. Then he got down on his hands and knees and crawled through a hatch under the stairs leading to the cockpit and into a tight compartment below the afterdeck. A waterproof chest was built into the hull. When Hatcher opened it, a light turned on automatically. Inside was a small arsenal: two .357 pistols, an H&K 9 mm. pistol, an M-16, a 9 mm. Uzi submachine gun. There were several loaded magazines for each weapon. There were also four ten-foot reels of extension cord, which was actually C-4 plastique. One weapon was wrapped in a green Hefty bag. Hatcher took the bag, two reels of C-4, closed and locked the compartment, and went back to the main cabin.

  He spread a blanket on the dining room table, took the weapon out of the Hefty bag and laid it on the blanket. It was an Aug, an Austrian automatic assault rifle that broke down into three simple components: the barrel, which was sixteen inches long; the tubular sight, which was capable of instant target acquisition; and the stock and trigger mechanism, which were high-impact plastic and rustproof. The weapon was totally waterproof. All other weapons, with which Hatcher was familiar — the M-16, Uzi and Mac 10 — were vulnerable to moisture in the barrel and would explode if water got in them. But not the Aug. It literally could be fired while coming out of the water.

  His memory began to stir again, a common ailment since Los Boxes. He called it an ailment because he had learned early from Sloan that memory had value for one thing only — reference. But now, staring down at the Aug, he remembered the first time he ever used the gun.

  Sloan had sent a slick upriver to the Boston drop, a hook in the Chu River near a small vill
age. The chopper picked up Hatcher and flew him back to a forward base in the Mekong Delta. Sloan was waiting for him in a hooch he had commandeered for the night.

  ‘I’ve got a problem,’ Sloan said over a glass of gin. ‘We have a Southern papa-san working for us, name of Di Tran. He’s a good slope. Charlie killed his wife, mother, two small kids. So he’s got plenty to get even far. He’s been working behind the lines for us, six, seven months. Very reliable information.’

  He paused for a moment, flattening his hands on the desk. ‘He knew the odds, it wasn’t like he didn’t know the odds,’ Sloan said, his fingers splayed out. He stared at them for several seconds before he went n. ‘He contacted the Swing Man about a week ago and asked for a drop. We met him and he passed us this tape.’

  He put the tape in the cassette deck and pushed the play button. The man’s voice was high and tinny, laced with fear: ‘I have just this yesterday receive information that an American is sell information to the A.RV. He has given up the names of three Vietnamese agents working in the North for Shadow Brigade. One of the names is mine. I am feared it will take them very shortly to break through my real name. I must warn my two friends of their danger before I run. Please arrange meeting for us at the Boston drop in two days. Wednesday. Sunset. If two hours passed, you may think we have been taken. This American was paid ten thousand dollars for each name. He promise to sell them more. His name is Norgling. Joi gin, my friends.’

  Hatcher looked up sharply where he heard the name Norgling. ‘Do you know who this Norgling is?’

  Sloan nodded. ‘He’s talking about Chick Norgling!’ Sloan said. ‘He’s in the brigade, like you. Working with crossovers.’

  ‘So he’d have access to that information?’

  ‘Also codes, maps, general info bulletins — and the basic information on the brigade itself,’ said Sloan. ‘Now you know why we maintain individual integrity in this outfit. Norgling’s just like the rest of you, he only knows his direct contacts.’

  ‘Which means you,’ Hatcher said.

  Sloan nodded slowly.

  ‘Get him off the street before he sells them anything else,’ Hatcher said.

  ‘I can’t bust him on the basis of that,’ said Sloan, nodding toward the cassette deck. ‘It’s his word against the voice on the tape. Without corroboration the provost marshal’ll laugh at me.’

  ‘How about this Di Tran?’

  ‘We sent a slick in for him but he didn’t show at the drop. We have to assume he’s dead.’

  ‘Then this Norgling’s gonna blow your whole show.’

  Sloan stared back at his hands for a few more seconds, then nodded to himself and looked up at Hatcher.

  ‘We’ll set him up. I’ll arrange for him to meet you someplace. Tell him it’s an operation requiring two men. When he shows up, drop him. Upriver maybe.’

  ‘No. Too many ears on the river. We’ll do it in Saigon. The Princess Hotel. I’ll dust him, you dump him.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Seven P.M. Fourth floor of the Princess. If Norgling was paranoid, if he suspected anything, he’d show up early to throw Hatcher off-balance. Hatcher knew the game well.

  Norgling arrived at a quarter to seven to find Hatcher’s door open just a crack. He loosened his coat, reached under his arm and felt his pistol grip, then stepped cautiously inside.

  The bedroom was empty. He heard music coming from the bathroom.

  ‘Hello?’ he called out.

  ‘In here,’ he heard Hatcher’s voice answer. ‘Close the door, will you?’

  Norgling closed the door and approached the bathroom slowly. Hatcher was in the tub, his had resting against the back of it, taking a bubble bath. There was a bottle of red wine on the floor beside the tub and a half-empty glass. There was another glass on the sink.

  Hatcher looked up and smiled. ‘Norg1ing?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Jesse Caruthers,’ Hatcher said. ‘Pardon me for not standing. Grab a glass and pull up a chair.’

  He could see Norgling’s face relax. The muscles around his mouth loosened, his smile came .easily, his whole body was at ease.

  A real amateur, thought Hatcher.

  As Norgling was pouring a glass of wine, Hatcher said, ‘What the hell kind of man sells cut three buddies for thirty thousand dollars?’

  Norgling reacted immediately. He dropped the bottle and glass and reached for his gun . As he did, Hatcher swung his right arm out of the tub. The Aug was in his hand, firing as it came out of the water, soap suds twirling off the barrel as bullets stitched a line from Norgling’s belly to his chest and then made a tight little spiral. Nine shots in less than a second — nine hits, four in the heart. Norgling’s body slapped against the tile wall and the air wheezed out of his lungs. His knees collapsed. He fell straight down, landing in a squat and the shattered wine bottle, and toppled to his side.

  Hatcher was out of the tub before Norgling was all the way down. He opened the towel closet and pulled out the green body bag he had stashed there earlier, grabbed Norgling by the hair, lifted his b.ody back to a sitting position and slid the bag over his head. He then let him fall backward, pulled the bag down the rest of the way and zipped it up. He slid it to the corner of the bathroom, put on his slippers, cleaned up the broken glass and mopped up the wine with a towel, which he washed off in the tub. Then he went to the phone and punched out a number.

  When the voice on the other end answered, Hatcher said, ‘Come get him!’ and hung up.

  That was one of the few times Hatcher knew who his victim was and why he was executing him. Usually it was blind obedience. ‘Do it,’ Sloan would say and Hatcher did it. Not only did it, accepted it, believed in it. But now, looking back, Hatcher realized he could have been used. Perhaps Norgling was just a fugazi, a screw-up, and they needed to get rid of him, and they could have dummied up the tape, and

  And perhaps it was 126, whispering in his ear, stirring thoughts that Hatcher had never stirred, never wanted to stir, before.

  He flipped the dials of the combination lock on the Halliburton case and opened it. Inside was a thick sheet of Styrofoam cut to fit snugly into the case. Fitted into that were a half-inch video camera, two battery packs, a 400 mm. and a 200 mm. telephoto lens, a shoulder mount for the camera, four blank VHS tapes and several extension cords, carefully coiled and tied with plastic ties.

  All were dummies.

  Hatcher cleaned the gun thoroughly, then quickly broke it down into its three sections. He slid the barrel into the specially designed tubular hinge of the case and twisted a small screw cap on the end of the hinge. He popped open the dummy video camera, placed the trigger housing inside it and snapped it shut. Then he unscrewed the lens from the 400 mm. telephoto and slid the gun inside it. The two plastic magazines, each capable of holding thirty rounds, fit inside the two hollow batteries for the dummy video camera. He also had a short barrel, four inches long, which converted the weapon into a pistol. He secreted the short barrel in the 200 mm. lens. All the equipment fit easily into the case, which weighed less than twenty pounds.

  The case also had a fake lining with a pocket, attached with Velcro to the inside of the lid. He peeled it back and put his money, letters and the fake passport into the waterproof pocket. Hatcher replaced the phony lining and dropped several file folders in the pocket, then closed the case and spun the dials on the five-digit combination lock.

  Broken down into its three parts and secreted in the attaché case, the Aug defied any detection device. Assembled, it was one of the most lethal and versatile weapons in existence, a killing machine without recoil or noise. The loudest sound the gun made was the trigger clicking. It was accurate to 450 yards. It was the only weapon Hatcher carried. The ammunition was available anywhere in the world, no problem.

  He went back in the bedroom, swiftly packed the Gurkha bag, zipped it up and took it back to the living room. Then he returned to the bedroom.

  Ginia was still sleeping. He stared down at h
er.

  The past was tapping his shoulder. What the Chinese called the ch’uang tzu-chi, the window to oneself, was open.

  What ghosts were waiting back there to wring his soul?

  Hatcher had thought Hong Kong and Bangkok were history. Upriver and the lair of the Ts’e K’am Men Ti.

  The White Palm Gang and the Chiu Chaos. Tollie Fong, Sam-Sam Sam and White Powder Mama. Fat Lady Lau’s,

  Cohen.

  Bangkok.

  And Daphne.

  Names he had tried to forget and couldn’t.

  He had tried to put them away, but they were all his yesterdays, the sum of his life.

  Sloan had returned like the devil crawling up out of Hades, extending a long, bony finger to him, beckoning him back to the dark places that even 126 did not talk about, places seeded with hatred and death.

  Going back really didn’t have much to do with Sloan, or with the names he’d dredged up — Buffalo Bill or Murph

  Cody. It was time to go back, time to close out some unfinished chapters in his life. Time to pay the fiddler.

  He sat down on the bed and began to rub Ginia’s back. She stirred and rolled over on her stomach. He got some moisturizer and began to massage her. For a moment the thought occurred to him that he was going to miss her, and the thought annoyed him because missing was like remembering. Hatcher had never missed anyone before in his life. It didn’t fit the pattern. It could be distracting, and that could be dangerous, screw up the old clicks, pull you out of the shadows into sunlight, where he knew he didn’t belong.

  ‘Attachments can be fatal,’ Sloan had said once. ‘They put your mind in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  Funny how often 126 and Sloan disagreed. What was it old 126 used to say? A man who has forgotten how to cry is dead inside.

  He dismissed the thought, kneading his fingers into her shoulders and then up to her neck, moving along her arms to her finger-tips and stretching each one, massaging it with cream, then back to her sides and down to her hips. She groaned very faintly and spread her legs slightly. He put one leg between hers, pulled her down against it and, leaning forward into her, started to massage her neck again.