There was a direct flight between Bangkok and Manila and as much as he hated Thai Airways for their shoddy service and mediocre food it was easier this way than to fly via Hong Kong or somewhere else.
The killer sat in business class because he could afford it and it was one way of relieving the weaknesses of the airline. The flight attendants all looked like his girlfriend’s grandmother and squeezed themselves into dresses that had been tailored for a slimmer version of what they now were. At least with Singapore Airlines, once they got past a certain age and weight they were strongly encouraged to move on to another career like housewife or mother. That didn’t seem to be the case with Thai. They just kept on flying. The money must be better than working in an office because most of the cabin crew would have been university graduates to meet the English and education level requirements.
He emptied his glass of wine and handed it to the woman who’d been serving him. Once she may have been stunning but now the make-up was thicker than cream on a black forest gâteau.
The airbus commenced its descent and soon landed at Ninoy Aquino airport. Compared to the modern glass and steel mega-polis that was Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport this place was a disappointment. It was grim and grimy, small and parochial, showing itself for what it was, a left-over terminal from the sixties when the Philippines had briefly been the wealthiest nation in South East Asia, before democracy and cronyism had brought everything and everyone to their knees. The Catholic church and a few powerful families now worked hard to keep the people in their rightful place of subjugation to their feudal lords. The occasional movie star or boxer got into politics on a wave of media-induced popularity but they burnt themselves out pretty fast on the excesses available to the privileged and the status quo—where nothing functioned and there was an excuse for everything—prevailed.
The killer waited for half an hour in one of the six immigration lines, was then stamped through by an elderly matron who barely looked at him. His bags finally came off the asthmatic conveyor belt and he was met outside by a pretty Filipina with deep brown eyes and charcoal black hair who held up a sign with his name on it.
It took fifteen minutes for the driver to show up, blaming his tardiness on the traffic even though it was a Sunday. His dashboard was a shrine to various saints and the Virgin Mary. With that amount of protection the assassin expected the journey should be a safe one even as the driver pulled over into the opposite lane and the oncoming traffic to avoid waiting for a red light to clear.
Two hours later they approached the town of Batangas where a private banca boat was waiting to take him across the straits to Puerto Galera.
The boatmen stowed his gear and he made himself comfortable for the one-hour ride. The azure water looked calm and together with the crystal blue sky seemed to be promising him a fine few days of holiday.
In the middle of the Batangas straits there was always some chop and it wasn’t unknown for smaller or overloaded boats to capsize and sink when the weather or visibility was poor. But the captain of the Poseidon knew his stuff and soon they were pulling up to the new pier that had finally been built. The small beach was crowded with guest houses, restaurants and bars. And there was no shortage of dive shops because it was a famous place with an excellent reef and it specialized in deep technical diving as well as some advanced drift dives that could get dangerous for novices. Its proximity to Manila made it popular with foreigners and locals and there was a sizeable expat community who had retired and who lived more for the San Miguel beer than the sporting opportunities.
When the killer got down from his banca, there was a gaggle of men offering to carry his bags to whatever guest house he wanted, but he ignored them. The banca boy took his bags instead to a large Honda four-wheel-drive which was parked slightly further up the main road. The driver, a lean weather-beaten Australian opened the rear door and shook the killer’s hand.
“Good trip?” he asked in a pronounced Aussie accent.
“Didn’t drown, no car crashes on the way down. How are you, Steve?”
“We been having a lot of brown-outs but what else is new?” the Aussie, Steve said.
“Weather looks good,” the killer said.
“No typhoons this month yet,” Steve said, putting the car in gear and leaning on the horn to clear a crowd of school kids in uniform who were blocking the way. “The girls are still tight and the beers are still cheap.”
“Yes,” said the killer buckling up his seat belt. “That’s important.”
Steve drove along the winding road leading from Sabang beach to Puerto Galera town, an ancient port of shelter for the Spanish when they’d first colonized the Philippines.
The vehicle bounced around on the road although it was much better already since the last time the killer had visited. The new mayor was obviously doing an honest job and not pocketing money intended for road works, as his predecessor had been rumored to do.
The two men talked about mutual acquaintances, the madness of local and national politics then passed through the town and came out the other side. The road got better as it snaked along the water front, with the sea on the left. After passing through two more villages they came to a sign that read “Collina Flora - Private Property.” Steve took the right turn and went up a steep hill. When they reached the top of the mountain they had a phenomenal, panoramic view of the entire bay, Puerto Galera town and in the distance Batangas where the killer had boarded the banca.
Steve pulled up in front of a blue house with a blue roof. It had a long colonial-style verandah taking in the entire view.
“Your home, sir,” he said in a fake English butler accent. “Shall I put the kettle on?”
* * * *
After they had been travelling for about two hours the driver pulled off at a motorway rest stop. Scrimple was on the verge of nodding off but woke up.
He went for a pee with the driver in a concrete hut out the back of the Seven Eleven. Lung had said nothing once they had boarded the van but was now standing apart, talking to someone on his mobile phone while intermittently puffing on a cigarette and breaking into coughing fits.
After the driver had filled up with petrol they set off again but instead of getting onto the highway where they had come from he headed into the countryside towards what appeared to be a village in the distance.
Scrimple was immediately wary. It could be nothing but he didn’t like it. He’d assumed there was a major road all the way from Bangkok to the Cambodian border so heading off into the jungle was unnerving. Although it did make a certain sense since if they were going to cross illegally they wouldn’t be using the main checkpoint. He couldn’t imagine that the border would be physically marked with fences or walls so it was most likely that they’d find some little back road that was Thailand one minute and became Cambodia the next.
They drove for another fifteen minutes and he observed the countryside carefully. He noticed that Lung was watching him with interest.
“Is this the way to the border?” Scrimple said.
Lung simply nodded and turned away.
They passed clusters of huts with tin roofs, then came to the outskirts of a larger village and before Scrimple realized, the van had pulled off into a walled courtyard. He glanced around with concern, trying to tell himself that this was still fine. He’d signed up for an illegal border crossing not a tour of Angkor Wat. He looked at Lung who was smiling humorlessly.
“What is this place?” Scrimple asked.
“Place to eat lunch, maybe,” Lung said with a smirk.
The driver turned off the engine and got out. He opened the side door and gave a jerk with his thumb indicating for Scrimple and Lung to come out. They both did so.
Scrimple gazed around and couldn’t explain to himself what they were doing here. When he turned his eyes back towards Lung, the man had produced an automatic pistol and was pointing it at Scrimple’s stomach.
“You know why we here?” Lung said. “We come here to talk with you about money.” He began coughing but managed to hold himself back. The driver stood a few yards away observing with interest.
“I don’t have any more money,” said Scrimple.
“You are wanted by police for murdering many people. I know that because I am a policeman, Detective Sergeant, see. If you want to carry on to Cambodia you need to give us money. A lot of money. If you don’t have any money then I will bring you to the police station here and will get a big ransom money.” Lung nodded seriously when he said this. “You understand?”
Scrimple said grimly, “I understand and I am fucking sick and tired of people pushing me around and taking things from me. What the hell is the matter with you people? You always want to take advantage of a man who is down?”
Lung shrugged as if not understanding or caring about Scrimple’s words. “You have money?” he said.
Scrimple sighed. “Yes, I have money.” He turned towards his rucksack and Lung came a bit closer but still keeping the gun up level. Scrimple unzipped the rucksack and reached inside.
With a quick movement born from all the pent-up anger and frustration that had grown inside him he turned swiftly, knocked the gun aside and plunged the carving knife he had taken from the kitchen deep into Lung’s sternum.
The fury just exploded out of Scrimple. He grabbed Lung’s shirt front, shaking him so he could free up the knife and thrust it back in again, this time closer to the heart. He could tell from the expression on Lung’s face that he had hit the right spot and he knew the Thai man would bleed to death within minutes.
Scrimple pushed Lung away from him, watching him stagger and finally collapse on the dusty courtyard. With a bloody hand, he picked up the gun that Lung had dropped and met the eye of the driver who was rooted to the spot with fear. Scrimple shot him twice in the chest and was already behind the wheel of the van, turning the ignition and flooring the clutch, before either of the two men were fully dead.
* * * *
It was eight-thirty and the killer was in the dive shop preparing his gear. He had arranged all his weights in a neat row then threaded them onto his yellow nylon belt. Many divers preferred having their weights integrated in the buoyancy jacket and not bothering with a belt but the killer was traditional in this regard. If you got caught in a nasty down current and you suddenly needed quick positive buoyancy then dropping your weight belt with a tug on the release buckle was the fastest and most efficient way.
There was a dive site in Puerto Galera called the Kilimar Drift and if you took a wrong turn at Sinandigan wall and it was a certain time of the tidal cycle you could easily get dragged down to seventy meters without realizing what was happening. It had nearly happened to the killer once and he’d been warned about it and was as experienced a diver as they come.
He had nearly two thousand dives under his belt and the Kilimar Drift could still get his pulse pounding. But this morning they were only doing the Canyons. That could be a fast drift dive and a novice could easily lose it at thirty meters and run out of air within fifteen minutes but it was nowhere as risky as the Kilimar. Any intermediate diver could comfortably handle the Canyons. And the fish life was great. The stronger the current, the better the feeding fish.
The killer opened his tank valve, partially pumped up his jacket and smelt the quality of the air that came from both his primary and backup regulator. He didn’t rush himself. He enjoyed interacting with his gear. He took pleasure in the rituals.
“Only the two of us,” Steve said, picking up his set of black rubber fins. The dive banca, much smaller than the large one that had brought the killer over from Batangas, pulled up in the shallows and because the tide was out they had to wade for fifty yards then toss their gear over the side into the boat and haul themselves up onto the transom.
Other divers from other shops were going out, some in speedboats, others in similar small bancas. Many were on their way to the Canyons. The water was flat and calm and the sky empty of any cloud.
The boatman took them around the point and along the line of the land until they were near a part of the reef called Escarceo. He nodded to the two men and put the diesel engine into idle. By now they had snapped all their gear tight, fins on, had their masks strapped to their faces and regulators in their mouths.
Steve gave a quick signal and they rolled backwards into the water.
It was warm, like a bath that had just been drawn. The killer checked his dive computer, noted the water temperature as thirty Celsius and equalized his ears by blowing against the nose piece in his mask. They were already at five meters because they had gone in with a negative entry. He looked around and found Steve, his buddy and dive guide a few meters to his left.
A few more fin kicks and both of them were at ten meters. The killer pumped a shot of air into his jacket to arrest his descent and find neutral buoyancy. Below them was a wonderful carpet of coral and shoals of small tropical fish. The current grabbed them and they began flying along like men with rocket packs on their backs.
Half a kilometer to go and twenty meters more depth, before they reached the Canyons. It would take them less than ten minutes.
* * * *
Scrimple wasn’t sure of the road but he hoped he was on the right track. He needed to get back to the highway. Had to lose himself in the busy traffic.
He was shocked at his own actions. Something murderous had just come over him. It was a release of his anger and frustration. All his impotent rage at recent events had gone into the two blows with the knife and the pulling of the trigger on the revolver.
Now he was shaking from the adrenaline rush, his forearms twitching as he worked hard at maintaining control of himself and the van.
They deserved it, the bastards, he kept on saying to himself.
They had wanted to squeeze him for money and take advantage of his problems. Well, now they’d gotten what they deserved. Teach them not to mess with him. They thought they could jump him in that remote village. Didn’t realize he’d been expecting something. He wasn’t going to be pushed around any more.
He’d fought back and they got what they deserved. Not some useless, middle-aged tosser after all. They had underrated him. He tried to stop the image but he got a morbid pleasure from the memory of that final, last horrified look on the driver’s face before he’d punched the bullet holes in him.
Scrimple kept his foot hard on the accelerator and ducked around slower pickup trucks that were on the road. He worked the horn, beating it with a passion as if the two men were not dead behind him in the dust and as if the center of the steering wheel was Lung’s face.
At last he saw a junction he recognized and knew for certain which was the way back to the big road.
On the motorway he headed back to Bangkok. Where else was there to go? He entertained the thought of going to Pattaya and finding the girl, Pim but that was dangerous. He needed to calm down, relax and think matters through carefully now.
He could sell the documents back to William or Pim—if she really wasn't working for the Hong Kong guy. But if he did that he had to be sure he wasn’t double-crossed. Once he got some large amount of money he still had the problem of how to get out of the country. Who else could help him with that? His face was all over the Thai newspapers and there would just be more Lungs coming to take advantage of him.’
Maybe it was time to ask for help from the man after all. He’d wanted to avoid this. It had always been the last resort in his mind but maybe he had no other choice now. He had to pull the joker from his sleeve and hope the card was worth something.
It had been a few years back and the man, Bill Jedburgh, had terrified him with his quiet, vicious confidence. They had known each other vaguely in the police. Scrimple had been a Detective Inspector while Jedburgh was in VIP protection and then the secretive Special Duties Unit handling terrorist threats and hostage situations. Jedburgh had left the Force in the early nineties to go into private consulting. He always claimed it was financial consulting but Scrimple had found out by chance that he did heavy work for the Singapore Intelligence Department. And that was all he knew. So turning to Jedburgh could be a saving grace or opening a Pandora’s Box.
He had no idea what a man like Jedburgh may have on his agenda. But Jedburgh would have contacts who could help Scrimple. He could cover Scrimple’s back as he tried to sell the documents back to the triads. A man like Jedburgh was the mirror image of William. Both ruthless creatures who could kill with barely a twitch of conscience. Scrimple hadn’t seen Jedburgh kill but he’d felt the coldness and the focus when they’d met before and a person was being tortured for information of importance to the Singaporeans.
Jedburgh was his last resort. Scrimple needed to think it through. He needed some rest and a bottle of vodka.
He focused on driving, going as fast as he could and the road conditions permitted. When he finally got back to Bangkok suburbs he took the Petchburi Road and left the van in the large car park of the Mona Lisa massage parlor. He slipped the revolver into his rucksack and flagged down a pink taxi.
He’d kept the key to the flat Jim had lent him, on the off chance that things might not work out. For now at least he still had a bolt hole to scurry back to.
* * * *
The Canyons were full of fish life. The current was ripping along so hard that the divers had to hold tight onto rocks to avoid being torn off into the murky blue depths.
The Killer had one hand curled under an outcrop of rock while the other hand held his regulator into his mouth. He tried hard to push himself down to avoid being buffeted by the current while trying to relax and watch the shoals of fish feeding in the nutrient-rich water. Steve lay on the sand in a similar position and appeared asleep.
A larger group of divers came over the ridge marking the start of the first canyon—they were twisting and twirling trying to keep control in the rush of the current. The dive leader had to grab two less experienced divers to stop them from shooting off beyond the second canyon. His fins thrust frantically in an effort to control three bodies against the force of nature. Finally he gave up and they all disappeared over the next ridge in a swirl of bubbles.
The killer smiled into his mask. It was really blowing today. He hadn’t experienced it this wild for a long time. Steve raised his head and made eye contact. He gave the okay sign and pointed forward. The killer acknowledged. They both kicked off and shot forward like torpedoes from a tube, propelled by the power of the water in the same direction.
The killer struck hard upwards with his fins, his hands tucked by his sides. A few more thrusts and he was over the ridge, finning down into the shelter of the second canyon. It was hard to keep stable but he was a strong swimmer. He cast around for a rock to grab, checked it wasn’t a scorpion fish in disguise which could happen even at this depth and anchored himself once again. He’d worn gloves just for this process because the rocks and coral could cut your fingers easily.
Steve was a few meters away, this time hovering in a curiously sheltered patch of water amongst the surrounding turbulence. He had his arms crossed and appeared to be meditating like a neoprene-clad Buddha. Another group of divers came over the ridge and they were more experienced, maneuvering well in the current and finding shelter and handholds. Everyone paused to watch the fish feeding. A shoal of napoleon wrasse, each nearly two feet long, their mouths opening and closing like a mute choir, hung above the divers.
The killer checked his pressure gauge and his dive computer. He had ninety bar of air left in his tank and five more minutes at this depth before he would go into decompression time. At thirty meters the deco tables only gave you twenty minutes. The body soaked up nitrogen faster here than at shallower depths.
Steve indicated and they hopped over into the next canyon, paused for two minutes and then blew out towards the big submerged underwater anchor which signaled the end of the dive site.
At this point the current grabbed them and they lost sight of the bottom. The killer kicked upwards and gave two short bursts of air into his jacket, ascending upwards into the blue. He crocked his arm and watched his dive computer carefully to make sure he ascended at a steady safe speed.
At eighteen meters depth there was always a mild down current and without any frame of reference it was easy to get stuck and even start descending again by mistake. When he noticed this the killer kicked with his fins until the dive computer told him he was at fifteen meters. By the time he reached ten meters he could see the surface of the sea above him. He spun around himself until he found Steve behind him calmly ascending. They exchanged okay signals.
When he got to seven meters the killer let out a burst of expanded air from his jacket to stop the ascent and get neutrally buoyant again. He unclipped his small safety reel with deft, quick movements, released the locking pin and inflated the signal balloon with a few puffs of air from the side of his regulator.
The orange sausage-like balloon shot up to the service, trailing its line attached to the spinning reel. He held it lightly as the line unrolled, then looked up to check the balloon was settled on the surface and fixed the locking pin on the reel again.
The balloon was there to alert boats that divers were doing their safety stop and make sure they were picked up quickly.
He checked his computer and found he was at five meters, the perfect depth for a precautionary decompression stop. Reaching over he let a bit more air out of his buoyancy jacket to become negative and holding on to his reel settled in for a three minute wait to let his body gas off the excess nitrogen in his tissues.
Steve floated opposite him, arms folded as usual, keeping at a perfect effortless depth.
Three minutes later they slowly rose the last few meters to the surface where the dazzling sun and their boat boy greeted them.