The Wrecking Crew (Janac's Games) Read online

  The temple was clearly visible in its chastely landscaped gardens as he entered through the steel gate. A red-tiled roof rose in three steeply pitched, overlapping layers above polished marble walls rising sheer out of granite paving. Hamnet slipped past the statues of guarding lions, pausing only to shed his shoes as local custom dictated. He looked over the early-morning sprinkling of tourists. There was no sign of Dubre. He glanced at the watch again: eight twenty. He was early. He stepped to one side and sat down with his back to the end wall.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Dubre rolled in, his normally cherubic face clouded, sweat patches darkening both armpits of his white shirt, grey trousers hanging loose and misshapen. He held a square manila envelope in each hand. He saw Hamnet immediately, walked over quickly and said, ‘We’ll talk outside.’

  Hamnet followed Dubre out into the gardens. His mouth was dry, and there was a tingling in his spine, a tightness across his chest. Dubre led him past canallike ornamental ponds to a bridge, rust red across green and turgid water. Dubre stopped on the far side and slumped onto a concrete seat by a little jetty. Hamnet sat beside him, desperate to know, fearful to ask. Dubre handed him one of the envelopes. Hamnet looked at him, terrified of what it might contain.

  ‘Photos,’ Dubre said. ‘Take a gander.’

  Hamnet felt his stomach flip as he slipped open the envelope and pulled out four 24-by-15-centimetre glossy colour prints. He drew in a sharp breath. The first was of a body on a slab. Large areas of flesh and organ in the abdominal region had been slashed; likewise the muscle tissue on both calves and thighs. One arm had been almost severed at the elbow. But the face was still there, curiously undamaged. And still recognisable.

  ‘Bureya.’ said Hamnet. He looked up at Dubre, surprised.

  ‘Michael Toliver Bureya,’ said Dubre. ‘US citizen and formerly with Special Forces, Vietnam. Known companion of one Paul Robert Janac. Who fits your description of the second American aboard the Shawould.’ His tone was strained, formal. ‘Mr Bureya was found yesterday morning in the Limende Strait, near a general cargo ship that had grounded on the Kelemar shoal some hours earlier. His injuries are consistent with being run over by a powerboat. Which is not in itself a problem. Mr Bureya was, by all accounts, a particularly nasty piece of work. The trouble is that all twelve of the crew are every bit as dead as he is.’ There was a long and painful pause. ‘What the bloody hell is going on, Phillip?’ Dubre leant towards Hamnet, fists clenched.

  Hamnet felt his head grow light. He wasn’t sure if he was going to faint or throw up. Twelve more dead. A breeze ruffled the trees, playing their shadows across the paving, bringing a moment’s mild relief from the heat. Chilling the sweat. Chilling his soul. What had he done?

  ‘Talk to me, Phillip. Can you help me stop this? What do you know?’ demanded Dubre, fists working on his knees.

  Hamnet looked at him hopelessly, struggling for words when there were none.

  ‘What do you know?’ insisted Dubre.

  ‘Anna . . .?’

  ‘This Janac character’s psychotic. I’m truly sorry — Anna won’t make it through this.’ Dubre flipped over another photo. ‘But there are others you might be able to save. Men like these.’ Hamnet caught a glimpse of a row of bodies lined up on a dock before burying his face in his hands and screwing his eyes shut. The rumble of distant traffic and the bright birdsong overhead barely pierced the heavy silence between the two men.

  Sunlight crept between Hamnet’s fingers, lit the red blood that pumped through his eyelids. The world was still there. A world in which thirteen men had been lost for Anna’s life. The blood of all of them was on his hands.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’ Hamnet ground out through clenched teeth and clasped hands.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Where?’ Hamnet dropped his hands and looked at Dubre.

  ‘Burma.’ Dubre wiped the sweat from his palms onto his trousers.

  ‘In Burma? Anna’s up there now?’

  ‘It’s a best guess. Near the northern Thai border. Janac’s been on the run since he was chased off an island in the Gulf of Thailand a few months ago. The Drug Enforcement Agency have a couple of sightings from the border region which they believe to be Janac. He has strong links with an old drug warlord and it’s possible he’s gone to ground with him. Piracy and murder obligations permitting.’ There was a bitter edge to the sarcasm. ‘He runs a heroin ring in Australia and does his buying at this time of year up in the Golden Triangle, along with every other drug-dealing scum in the Pacific Rim. So it’s a good bet he’ll be there at some stage soon. Whether he’s based in Burma and took Anna there, or if he has her stashed away somewhere else, I don’t know for sure. It’s a best guess,’ Dubre repeated. He swept his hand agitatedly through the imaginary hair. ‘If she’s still alive . . .’

  ‘But it’s the place to look,’ said Hamnet, sitting up.

  Dubre shook his head slowly. ‘Even if she’s there, there’s nothing you can do. These opium warlords command armies ten, twenty thousand strong for pete’s sake. Nothing short of a full-scale invasion by the Thai military will get her out. And if they won’t engage those people for the US government’s antidrug money, they sure as hell aren’t going to do it for some Farang woman.’

  ‘I want to go there.’ Hamnet’s voice had a new firmness. He gazed levelly at Dubre. ‘Give me a week. If we haven’t found her by then, I’ll tell you everything. We can stop this happening again.’

  ‘Then tell me now.’

  ‘I'm sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘You can’t save her, Phillip.’

  ‘Take me there. Give me just a little more time. Then I’ll tell you.’

  ‘I can’t do that. Two ships and twenty-three lives already — I can’t risk any more.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Dubre. I’m not going to tell you anything until you get me as close to Anna as you can.’

  Dubre caught the intensity of Hamnet’s gaze full on. He had seen that defiant look before. He was losing this argument. He looked away, his hand stroking the top of his head again. ‘We don’t have a week. This boat was hit six days after the Shawould.’

  ‘I gave you four days. You do that for me.’

  ‘Phillip, for pity’s sake, there are untold lives at stake here,’ retorted Dubre with a sudden flash of anger and frustration. ‘He will kill Anna — if he hasn’t already. There’s nothing you or anyone else can do to save her. Help me save others. Tell me what’s happening.’ Dubre thumped his fist onto his knee.

  ‘Christ! You think I'm happy about this?’ Hamnet slapped the pictures in disgust. ‘But I can’t just give her up, walk away. I can’t. How do I live the rest of my life after that? She’s pregnant with my children. Four days, that’s all I want. To try and reach her. He can’t set up another boat in that time, believe me. Get me close and I’ll tell you everything.’ And as he spoke, Hamnet prayed silently to an unknown god he barely believed in: please let it be so. Give me four days before he strikes again.

  Dubre stared off into space, his anger draining. It had been his last shot. Across the water a young girl posed prettily for her picture by the lions at the temple entrance. There was the distant crack of thunder. The moisture-laden air was heavy with the menace of violence in the coming storm.

  ‘I’ll take you up there,’ said Dubre. ‘I know a chap in the DEA in Chiang Mai. He owes me a favour. He’ll tell you it straight from the horse’s mouth.’ He sighed in resignation. ‘After that you’ll come to your senses. Get used to the idea that you’re not going to see her again, Phillip. I’m sorry.’

  Chapter 12

  Hamnet returned to the hostel, where the same upturned but uninterested faces greeted him as he walked into the lobby. There was no reflection in those innocent expressions of the hollowness — the gut-wrenching emptiness — that he felt. In the dormitory, just regular breathing and periodic fits of unconscious movement. He sat, trying to adjust to the new, even darker world that now surrounded him
.

  Eventually he pulled open the second of the two manila envelopes Dubre had been carrying. Inside was a forged British passport, in the red of the European Union and bearing the name Michael Toliver. He had arranged to meet Dubre at nine o’clock the following morning at a hotel in Chiang Mai. He used the freedom the new passport gave him and stepped from the traveller ghetto into the embrace of another, first-class, Thailand. He glided all the way to the hotel Dubre had named. There was still another long night of sweat-soaked sheets that even the Suriwongse’s impressive air conditioning and a sleeping tablet couldn’t alleviate. But by the time Hamnet faced himself in the mirror the following morning, he had found new strength in a decision made. He dressed as smartly as he could in yet more borrowed clothes — a pair of 501s and a grey, collared T-shirt. Then he sat on the bed and waited. The man he was to meet was his last real hope of saving Anna; the only alternative was both desperate and final.

  At five past nine the phone rang. Hamnet stared at it for a moment before answering.

  Dubre was curt. ‘I’m downstairs.’

  Hamnet was with him in less than a minute. On seeing him, Dubre turned and strode through the wood-panelled lobby without a greeting. They were in a taxi before he spoke.

  ‘We’re going straight to the DEA’s compound to meet one of their chaps. He’ll tell you everything you need to know.’

  ‘And what does he know about me?’ asked Hamnet as the taxi clattered off.

  ‘I’ve told him that you’re a friend of mine, a journalist called Michael Toliver. This guy Janac murdered half the crew of a yacht six or seven years ago. It was big news at the time — he made them play some kind of crazy game to see who would live and who would die. You remember it?’

  Hamnet shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I told the DEA chap you’re doing a follow-up story and want to get some background on Janac. I think that way you’ll learn all you need to know. Naisborough is something of an expert. But if you want more from him, you’ll have to figure out what you’re prepared to tell him.’

  Hamnet nodded slowly, staring out at the life spilling towards them from the pavement, crowding ever closer as the streets became poorer. Brick gave way to tin, three storeys to one. Finally, they rounded a corner, to be faced by sheer concrete walls and massive steel gates. The taxi pulled up, Dubre paid and they climbed out.

  Dubre spoke a few words to a guard and showed some ID. After being thoroughly searched the gates opened, and they stepped from the dust and poverty of northern Thailand into the manicured and surreal calm of Middle America. The gentle thump of tennis balls and the swish of sprinklers was all that disturbed the air. Crisp, white-painted, two-storey houses nestled amidst perfect lawns and swimming pools. They were led to a three-storey office block and up a flight of stairs. Their footsteps echoed down the wooden hall. Finally they stopped outside a heavy door. A swift knock and they were ushered into a large office. Its occupant was already halfway across the floor, hand extended.

  ‘John Naisborough,’ he said in a clipped voice, after nodding a greeting to Dubre. The grip was painful as Hamnet proffered his own hand. From the close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair to the polished black calf-length boots, Naisborough was the all-American serviceman. Only the dragon tattoo on a muscular forearm spoke of an irregular past. Hamnet judged him to be in his late forties and in frighteningly good shape. Naisborough moved to sit down, indicating two chairs opposite him on the other side of an enormous desk. Hamnet’s gaze flicked quickly round the room as he sat. An assault rifle was propped against the back wall, the American flag kissing the barrel as it hung from its standard.

  ‘I understand from Dubre that you’re a journalist,’ said Naisborough in a voice that didn’t go far towards disguising his distaste.

  Hamnet glanced at Dubre before saying, ‘That’s right. I’m interested in a man by the name of Paul Robert Janac.’

  Naisborough sat back and the big leather chair creaked. He folded his hands in his lap. ‘Janac, yes, I served with him in Vietnam, Mr Toliver, before he went off to work for the CIA. We were on long-range recon patrols together. It was an unpleasant business. LRRPS didn’t take many prisoners but that suited Janac just fine.’

  He paused. The silence was broken only by the hum of the air conditioning and a slight scuff as Dubre shifted his bulk in his seat. Hamnet stared fixedly at the wall behind Naisborough until he continued.

  ‘I understand you’re writing a story about the incident in the boat off Papua New Guinea. So you’ll already know that Janac has a sadistic streak. But it’s not cruelty for its own sake — he’s motivated by what he sees as some kind of enquiry into the human mind. That was the case in the boat incident — the series of games, pivoting on a decision between self-interest and collective good. And all targeted on a man who’s life had turned from good to bad on just such a decision. It was typical of Janac, as much for the fact that his own code of honour ruled that he let the survivors go as for the cruelty of the final game of Russian roulette.’

  It was Hamnet’s turn to shift uncomfortably. ‘Dubre thought you might have up-to-date information on his activities and whereabouts,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ drawled Naisborough. ‘But this is unattributable. I’m only doing it because I owe Mr Dubre a big favour. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Then it’ll be easier if I give you a little background first. This is a war zone up here.’ His hand indicated a wall map bright with coloured markings and tiny flagged pins. ‘Right now we have a very fluid situation. There are many causes, but the result is a bunch of competition in the opium business. And the only common factor in the whole stinking business is the Chinese. The Golden Triangle armies, the supply routes and the distribution networks are all controlled by elements of the Chinese diaspora. Now this is not a criminal organisation like the Mafia or the Colombian cartels, with an extensive hierarchy and vertical control like a multinational corporation. It’s more of a huge group of small freelance operations that come together for particular deals, forming and re-forming depending on the capital, manpower and logistical requirements of each task.’

  Naisborough leaned forward, warming to his theme, elbows on the desk. The dragon rippled. ‘It’s a very modern business model — flexible, responsive — but it only works when the different parties have a strong relationship of trust. You do a deal and you stick to it. If you take money off someone, you deliver what’s agreed. Guanxi is what they call it — networks of obligation and responsibility, favours and requests. Now, obviously, Janac is not Chinese. And his lack of respect for this Chinese way of doing things is what has landed him in his current situation.

  ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself.’ He paused for a moment’s thought before continuing. ‘Janac was originally sent to Laos by the CIA in the ’70s to help organise insurgency armies. The Kuomintang in particular — the Chinese nationalist army defeated by Mao — was maintained and assisted by the CIA as a barrier against communist expansion. But instead of retaking China they used CIA weapons to build a massive opium export business.

  ‘So Janac hooked up with an old KMT general and made some good friends — people who control opium fields, refineries and supply routes. And when the moment was right, he set up as an independent operator. He built his market in Australia using some Aussie buddies he’d met in Nam. It got Janac started, and whilst we helped break up parts of the network occasionally, he was Australia’s biggest importer for some time.

  ‘Contacts in Sydney tell me that the situation has now changed. He’s getting hit on the streets by the new Chinese traffickers — people who went there ahead of the Hong Kong handover. And a year ago, someone — we think a Hong Kong-based Triad — started to squeeze him in Thailand as well. His protection collapsed, and he cleared out of his stronghold on Ko Samui, an island in the Gulf of Thailand, just before our boys down south got to him. He was off the scene for six months before he popped up here.

  ‘This h
as been coming to Janac for a long time. As I said, he doesn’t respect the Chinese way of doing business, and you can’t run heroin out here unless you deal with the Chinese. Janac believes that self-interest is the only driver in any kind of relationship — as you’ll know if you’ve talked to the survivors of the boat incident. So he just doesn’t get Guanxi. He has no concept of a trust relationship. You give him an inch and he’ll screw you over. I’m sure the boat victims wouldn’t fail to see the irony in the fact that it’s this very attitude that has wrecked Janac’s drug business.

  ‘But the Chinese are practical people, and they put up with it while they needed him. Once his dealers started getting hit and he lost market share, though, his position here was weakened too. Someone decided to get even and he’s been running ever since they closed him down on Ko Samui. A lot of stock and cash went down the river then, and what I hear now is that his dealers are not getting supplied. But there’s one man who will still deal with him up here: the KMT general he’s known for twenty-five years. I’m sure Janac is seeing old General Lee, trying to buy enough China White to put himself back in business. How the hell he’s going to pay for it we’re not so sure.’

  Hamnet had listened to every word of this long speech in silence. He knew — in his gut, in his blood — that Anna was here, that she was still alive, with Janac, with General Lee. He would not let her die alone. He had kept himself alive on the Shawould to try and save her. If that could not be achieved, his life was forfeit — payment for all those who had died as a result of his quest. And he’d known it since that morning. He knew what he had to do, but he needed this man’s help.

  ‘Mr Naisborough, I appreciate what you’ve told us,’ he started. ‘But we’ve come here under slightly false pretences.’

  Naisborough swung a heavy glance at Dubre.

  ‘I must ask you not to repeat anything that I am about to tell you,’ continued Hamnet.