Taking the bag, I found an area of raked gravel, simulating waves of water. I dug down in a corner of the gravel as far as I could go; depositing the bag a good arm’s depth down. I then replaced the gravel and spent precious seconds flattening the gravel and then using my fingers, recreated the waves. I ran across to an adjacent wall and scrambled onto the top, peering over to make sure no police were waiting for me, and then dropped down into the street.
Losing gloves and any tools down a nearby drain, I then turned and ran away from the noises, round a couple of corners, across a park, through some alleys and into a well lit, modern main street. I was casually walking down the road when the police stopped me. My only crime was that I was dressed like an assassin.
I was illegally in the country, without papers, passport and dressed like a mercenary. They took me to the central police station, by which time the theft had been discovered.
It took them three days to identify me, as my prints weren’t on record with Interpol and I refused to talk at all. In the end, it was one of the Africans who identified me, probably after a good deal of communication took place to and from his country. I was in the frame well and truly.
They treated me reasonably for the first few hours, until they'd worked out exactly what had happened. I said absolutely nothing, simply asking for the British consular officials, which was denied for the first week. Once I was identified, they permitted me one visit from a British official. He was a limp rag of a man called Charles Lumsden, who wrung his hands and promised to - “see what I can do.”
Then the beatings started, as the true value of the diamonds became known. They wanted to know how I'd gained entry to the safe and where the diamonds were now.
Despite never meeting the man, I was given to understand that Cu`ong Pho’ was particularly upset, as he stood to make a huge profit over this deal, as would the Vietnamese government. Not forgetting the Africans, who were waiting to kill me, given half a chance.
They assigned a lawyer to my case, while the British government representative, Mr Lumsden, stated he was sympathetic, "but there is very little we can do!"
I knew that someone in Whitehall was probably as happy as a sand-boy to learn I had dropped myself in the brown and pungent. They were now vindicated in dismissing me, so I could picture the tabloids having a field day.
I persistently and consistently denied the theft, asking what evidence they had against me. It was all circumstantial, as they had nothing to connect me to the scene. I'd worn gloves, which I had slipped down the drain, there were no fibres, DNA or other forensic tests done, and as no one had seen me, all they had was me in Vietnam, a couple of streets away after the event. No court in Britain or America would ever convict on that evidence.
I wasn’t in the UK or USA, so it was, therefore, more than enough for their court, so it convicted me of burglary.
As for the Corporation – I heard nothing!
I didn't try to contact them; neither did they appear to do anything to contact me, or to help in any way, shape or form.
I was alone, as bloody usual!
When the judge pronounced the death penalty, there was an audible intake of breath from most people in the gallery, including the British consular official. I heard a short laugh from an African gentleman in a suit, but I refused to react. I held onto a hope that Harvey and his ex-Marines would affect a jailbreak.
It never happened.
I also thought that with a conviction, the beatings would cease, but I was wrong. They wanted the diamonds back, so were determined to break me.
I was angry now. I was angry with the court, angry with the Corporation who'd left me out to dry, angry with the British Government for being two-faced bastards that changed their minds when it was politically expedient, but most of all I was angry with me. I was a complete idiot, who'd naively blundered into this and been taken for a ride by everyone and everything. I saw Charles Lumsden again, just once. He wrung his hands, told me he was sorry and left. I think he was genuinely upset, more at having to come to see me in the gaol rather than what had happened to me. I’d upset his nice little diplomatic life.
I hated him too!
It was my anger that kept me sane and kept me from breaking. Oh, I'd been tempted, particularly when Quang Lam had been using his ‘be nice and promise the earth’ moods. I almost fell for the – ‘tell me the truth and you'll be moved to a comfortable cell, with a real bed and good food.’
By the time they came for me, I was used to hard boards and crap food. At least I'd lost weight.
So, it came as a complete shock to me when I found myself still alive after being shot. Maybe, just maybe, I hadn't been forgotten after all.
Whilst still in the body bag, they didn’t exactly treat me with care, so I sustained more than one extra bruise along the way. Mind you, what were a few more amongst so many?
They threw the bag, with me inside, into a grave, or so it felt like. This was confirmed when earth started landing on top of me.
To resist crying out took all my will power, as I was a little short in the faith department at that moment. I was still trying to come to terms with not perforated by high-velocity rounds and bleeding to death, so suffocating wasn't high on my lists of things to enjoy with my new-found life.
The earth continued to rain down on me, so becoming quite heavy and dark. I heard a word of command, and the earth instantly stopped coming. I lay there, desperately wanting to move and yet terrified of doing so. I didn't want to risk being shot for real. I hoped that whoever had arranged this was also hoping to get me out alive.
It started to rain. I was hot, damp and weighed down by a hundredweight of earth that was getting heavier with every raindrop. It was getting difficult to breathe, and I felt a panic attack coming on. It welled up inside me, as I tried slowing my breathing rate, trying to use any mind focussing method to avoid the attack, but it became too strong. I reached a point when I knew I was going to have to move, otherwise I'd scream.
At that exact moment, strong hands lifted me and the bag from the hole. This time the bag was lowered gently onto the ground, and the zipper was opened. I lay there, refusing to move.
"You ain't dead, cap?" asked a familiar voice.
I risked opening an eye and saw Harvey's teeth gleaming at me through the darkness.
"Shit, Cap, are you a mess?"
"Tell me something I don't know. What fucking kept you?" I gasped, just before passing out.
So many movies and books have the hero passing out, but then coming round in a hospital room, warm and safe with pretty nurses and flowers everywhere.
No this time.
I woke up covered in shit.
No, really, I was, and none of it was my own.
I was pinned to the bare boards of a beaten up old pickup underneath a pile of pig shit mixed with straw. My first reaction was to gag and retch.
"Shut up, Cap, you'll give us away," said a voice very close to me.
Turning my head, I saw Harvey lying next to me in the same predicament.
"What the fuck?" I stammered.
"Shh, it's not that much further."
He lied.
It was much, much further, so my battered body and battered mind couldn't take it, so I passed out again, blissfully unaware of each pothole and the overpowering smell of pig poo.
My next conscious moment came when someone was shaking me rather roughly and asking if I was awake.
"No, fuck it; I'm fucking dead, so leave me alone, you bastards!"
I was then assisted to stand, with some help, it has to be said, as I was stripped of all my clothing and hosed down with very cold water.