“Yeah.”
Russell rubbed the underside of his chin. “So they want us to come back?”
“Yeah, Morton is in hot water, but as far as they’re concerned, we were just following orders, so if we go back, we’re off the hook.”
“What do you want to do?”
The barman came over with another coffee and a bottle of Singha beer. Cohen ripped open a packet of sugar and poured it into the cup. “Well, it takes time to arrange a flight. I’d say it’s unreasonable to expect us to fly back before, well, at the earliest, tomorrow morning.”
“Just in time for a small trip to Macau then?”
“I don’t see why not.”
- Chapter 38 -
Macau
The black Mercedes parked up opposite the terminal. The smell of saltwater crept through the vents. Varndon and Ashansky sat in the back, watching the passengers file in and out. The red ferry sat docked in the harbour, its engines running slowly, spewing out a steady stream of white water. Four of Ashansky’s men, dressed in business suits, walked past them and headed towards the entrance.
“Where are they going to be?” said Varndon.
“They’ll be close,” replied Ashansky.
“And if Harper spots them?”
“He won’t. They’re professionals.”
“So is he. Have you heard from Gershov?”
“He’s sweeping the terminal. If Harper’s planning on bringing any back-up, he’ll sniff them out.”
The flow of passengers started to increase. Varndon leaned forward. “We’re going to have to leave or we’ll miss it.”
Ashansky looked at his phone. “Okay, let’s move.”
They crossed the road into the terminal and fell in behind a crowd of revellers. The ferry had two decks. Varndon looked around for any sign of Harper and Vitsin. Ashansky nodded to the far corner of the lower deck. Gershov sat with a coat on his lap. Opposite him were Cohen and Russell. The barrels of two pistols jutted out slightly from under the coat.
“Looks like he’s on his own now,” said Ashansky. Gershov nodded his head towards the upper deck, pointing them in the direction of Harper and Vitsin. The automatic door clicked and closed behind them as the engines kicked into gear, propelling the boat forward. Ashansky followed Varndon to the front of the ferry and up to the second level. The deck had space for around 150, but was only half full. A noisy group of high school kids shouted at each other across the middle aisle and some English partygoers laughed, downing cheap bottles of Japanese beer.
“There they are,” said Ashansky, pointing at the other end of the boat. His men were sat nearby, reading newspapers, blending in with the crowd. They walked down the aisle, taking in the passengers, mindful of any trap. Vitsin watched them approach, while Harper looked out of the window.
“May we join you,” said Varndon, sitting down. Ashansky’s eyes bored into Harper’s and Varndon kept a covetous watch on Vitsin.
“Your friends from London won’t be joining us,” said Ashansky. Varndon wiped some steam from the window and looked outside. “I have to say I expected more from you. It’s a shame.”
“Look at him,” said Ashansky. “Little Mishka is out of ideas.”
Varndon raised his hand to let Harper speak.
“Can we talk alone?” Harper said, looking at Varndon.
“Of course. Let’s go out on the deck.”
Ashansky looked on suspiciously as Varndon followed Harper through a side door and out into the open air. The boat skipped along the water past a rusty barge. They walked to the back of the deck and leant on the plastic railings.
“You can have Vitsin,” said Harper. “He’s not my concern.”
“I know we can,” replied Varndon. “It’s definitely not your concern.”
“I want an assurance that neither you nor Ashansky will come after me once we step off this boat.”
Varndon laughed. “And why would I give you that?”
“To buy my silence.”
“Your silence? Your silence on what exactly?”
“On what I saw in Almaty. On everything.”
“I think you’ve lost it completely.” Varndon leaned in closer to Harper. “I know all about your therapist visits. I know about the booze problems, the drugs, the nightmares.”
“Is that right?”
Varndon produced a piece of paper from his trouser pocket and started to read aloud: “Patient has experienced severe panic attacks and anxiety. Post-traumatic stress a distinct possibility. Patient’s tendency to downplay symptoms must be discouraged. Fitness for continued employment questionable.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“We know everything about you Harper. You think I’d turn up here without knowing what makes you tick?”
“I suppose not.”
“Whatever you had planned with those dull-witted friends of yours downstairs is over. And you’re over. Vitsin belongs to me now…and you belong to them.”
Ashansky and one of his men walked out onto the deck. Varndon walked away and ducked back inside the door. “You were very convincing you know,” said Ashansky. “I never once suspected you were a pig, despite Gershov’s warnings.”
Harper said nothing.
“And Ksenia really loved you. But she is broken now. You left my beautiful daughter broken.”
Harper straightened his stance and looked at Ashansky. “I’d be more willing to listen to a lesson in morality from someone without so much blood on his hands.”
“You want to talk about killing? Well, that’s something you know all about little Mishka.” Harper looked towards Ashansky’s man, who was pointing a gun towards his chest.
“What? You want to try something? Go ahead. It will save me the hassle. We can just dump you in this fucking water right now.”
Harper put his hands in his pockets.
“No? I thought not.”
They pushed him back towards the door. Several guns were pointing in his direction when they got back inside.
“Now I hope you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid for the rest of the journey,” said Varndon. “We could do without any nastiness with all these people around.” Harper looked at Vitsin. He was concentrating on the floor and fidgeting with the zip on his jacket. He stayed that way until the ferry began to slow on the approach to Macau. The boat edged sideways into the terminal, coming to a stop next to a raised wooden platform. Ashansky’s men flanked the group as they made their way downstairs and Gershov herded Russell and Cohen alongside Harper.
“Good party,” said Russell. “Thanks for the invite.”
“Care to tell us what the hell’s going on?” said Cohen, stepping out onto the gangplank. Harper ignored them and walked ahead. A line of vans waited in the empty car park with more of Ashansky’s men inside.
“Why don’t you let them go?” said Harper, pointing at Cohen and Russell. “It’s not them you want, it’s me.”
“You know what I want?” said Ashasnky. “I want all my enemies dead. And that includes them.”
“It’s good that you think about your enemies,” said Harper. “Some people can get complacent in that respect. Forget who they’ve wronged.”
“What are you talking about?”
Harper stopped. “Do you remember Northern Ireland Leonid?”
“Of course I remember.”
“Do you ever think what those guns you supplied were used for?”
“Who gives a shit.”
“The IRA gives a shit.”
“Yeah? Fuck the IRA.”
“I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you.”
A whistling sound shot through the air followed by a small thud. As the group looked around for the origin, a second bullet hit Gershov’s face and he dropped to his knees and crashed to the floor. A flurry of sniper fire filled the air and Ashansky’s men reached desperately for their guns. Harper grabbed Cohen and Russell and ran back towards the boat, taking cover behind a concrete pillar. They watched as Ashansky’s men dropped to the floor like dominoes. The men in the vans returned fire towards a building on the opposite side of the street, but their potshots bounced back off the brick.