Hutch showed no reaction, at least none that Carver could discern.
'And I know why you're in here.'
Hutch shrugged carelessly. 'I'm in here because I was caught with drugs in my bag. It's a mistake. I was set up.'
Carver stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in a battered aluminium ashtray. 'Yes, you were.'
'Who are you?' asked Hutch.
'Carver. Tim Carver. I'm vvith the Drug Enforcement Administration.'
'I thought it was Agency.'
'What?'
'Agency. I thought DEA stood for Drug Enforcement Agency.' Hutch scratched his face. 'I don't suppose you've got a badge.'
'It's Administration. And we don't carry badges.' Carver lit another Marlboro. He inhaled and blew a smoke ring up to the ceiling.
'You do that well,' said Hutch.
'I've had a lot of practice,' said Carver. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together, the burning cigarette pointing towards Hutch like the barrel of a gun. 'There are times when I don't know everything, you know? I have to try and prise out the information I want. Sometimes I have to use threats, sometimes I offer money, occasionally I have to use little tricks. But this time, I know everything. It's a great feeling, Chris.'
Hutch licked his lips. It was the first sign of nervousness that he'd shown. He waited for Carver to continue.
'Your name is Chris Hutchison, and you've been dead for seven years. You assumed the identity of Warren Hastings shortly before you arrived in Hong Kong and you're being forced to engineer the escape of Ray Harrigan.'
Hutch visibly paled and his mouth dropped open. 'Jesus H. Christ,' he said under his breath.
'Billy Winter is threatening to kill your son if you don't help get Harrigan out.'
'How?' said Hutch. 'How do you know?'
Carver smiled and raised an eyebrow. 'I can read minds, Chris. I can see right inside your head. You're a very special man. One in a million. You escaped from one of the highest-security prisons in the United Kingdom. Before that you managed to get out of two other prisons, neither of which were exactly holiday camps, but you were recaptured. Once I read your record, it was obvious why Winter wanted you.'
There were beads of sweat on Hutch's brow and he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. 'Bey,' he said. 'You had the room bugged.'
Carver smiled tightly. 'I admit it's not as impressive as mindreading, but it works.'
'Who else knows?'
Carver took another pull on his cigarette before answering.
'That's a sensible question to ask, Chris. It shows you're thinking. They do call you Chris, right?'
'Hutch. Everyone calls me Hutch. Who else knows?'
'Just me.'
'But you checked with the UK authorities. So they know, too.'
Carver shook his head slowly. 'I'm not stupid, Hutch. I got our Miami office to run a check on you and Winter, along with half a dozen other names, all Brits. It'll appear to be routine, no red flags will be raised, believe me.'
'There was a woman, a reporter . . .'
'Jennifer Leigh. I don't think she's going to be a problem.' Carver was fairly sure that Jennifer Leigh was dead. Her luggage had turned up in a hotel by the river and she'd signed an American Express chit before disappearing. He'd arranged for the local hospitals to be contacted just on the off-chance she'd been involved in an accident, but Carver knew he was just going through the motions. Life was cheap in Thailand, cheaper than almost anywhere else in the world.
Hutch fell silent, as if he'd run out of questions. He looked down at the tabletop.
Carver could practically hear the man thinking. He flicked ash into the ashtray. 'I think at this point you're supposed to say, “What is it you want?” or something like that.'
Hutch looked up. 'What is it that you want?' he said. His voice had gone suddenly hoarse.
Carver stood up and walked over to the door. He stood with his back against it. 'I need your help,' he said.
'What, are you trying to escape, too?'
Carver smiled. 'Good to see you haven't lost your sense of humour,' he said. 'Do you have any idea what you're going to do, assuming that you get Harrigan out?'
Hutch didn't say anything for a few seconds, then he nodded. 'He's going over the border into Burma.' He smiled coldly. 'I guess I was supposed to go with him. Billy's got connections there, he said.'
'I'll say he has. Harrigan was found with fifty kilos of heroin produced by a Chinese warlord up in the Golden Triangle. I'm THE SOLITARY MAN 259 pretty sure that this Winter's going to take you and Harrigan to him. I can't see how else he's going to get you out of the country. What else did he say?'
'He said we'd go to a place called Fang. Some town up north.'
'I know it,' said Carver. It was a Wild West town, the haunt of drug dealers and backpackers. It was a dangerous, lawless place.
'He said we'd get a guide there, some guy who'd take us across the border.'
Carver studied the end of his cigarette. 'You can help us, Hutch. You can help us big time.'
'How?'
'The DEA wants to find out where this warlord's base is.'
'So what am I supposed to do? Phone you when I get there?'
Carver's smile vanished. 'You can leave the details to me,' he said. 'At this stage all I need to know is that you agree to cooperate.'
Hutch stared at the DEA agent. 'And if I don't?' he said eventually.
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, you're the third person to threaten me this month. I'm getting used to the format. First you tell me what you want, then you tell me what you'll do if I don't help you.'
Carver pushed himself away from the door and went back to the table. He put his hands on the surface and leaned forward so that his face was only inches away from Hutch's. 'I don't want to threaten you, Hutch. I don't want to put electrodes on your balls or whack the soles of your feet with a baseball bat. I don't want to do any of those things. I want you to help me because you'll be doing the right thing. You'll be helping to put away the man who's directly responsible for turning kids into heroin addicts, the man who's ruining my country and who'll be doing the same to yours before long.'
'And if I say no?'
'I hope that you won't, Hutch.'
'So all you're going to do is to appeal to my better nature? I don't think so.' He sat back in his chair, his chin tilted up defiantly. 'I want to hear you say it. I want the words to come out of your mouth.'
'Don't make me put it into words, Hutch. Let's not spoil a beautiful friendship.' He straightened up and stubbed out the remains of his cigarette.
Hutch said nothing. He just stared coldly at the DEA agent.
'Okay,' said Carver. 'First of all, I can just call the UK authorities and have you sent back to your cell on the Isle of Wight. Or I can just let things run their course here. You'll get fifty years, minimum. And you can forget any chance of escaping because I'll make sure that you spend the whole fifty years in solitary, handcuffed and manacled. There's no prisoners' rights in this country, Hutch. Bey won't get near you, you won't have any visitors. You'll rot here, you'll rot until you die. And Harrigan will be in the cell next to you.'
Hutch nodded slowly, his eyes hard and emotionless.
'I'm not sure what Winter will do to your kid. Maybe nothing. I hope so, I wouldn't want anything to happen to him. What do you think, Hutch? Do you think Winter's a good loser?' Carver picked his pack of Marlboro off the table and lit another cigarette. 'Are you happy now?' he asked.
Hutch took a deep breath. 'Happy doesn't exactly describe my state of mind, no.'
'It's not all bad news,' said Carver. 'If you do help, there are things the DEA can do for you. Things that even Winter can't offer you.' He sat down and rested his elbows on the table. 'I can put you into the DEA's witness protection programme. We can give you a new identity, a passport, a Social Security number. Money in the bank, a job if you want it. The DEA can give you a new life.'
'I quite liked the old one,' said Hutch.
'Whichever way this works out, your life is never going to be the same again,' said Carver. 'If you help me, Zhou Yuanyi and his people are going to be after your blood. If you refuse . . .' Carver let the threat hang in the air.
'Between the devil and the deep blue,' said Hutch.
'A rock and a hard place,' agreed Carver. 'But at least the DEA can offer you a way out.'
'Assuming I can trust you.'
Carver blew a smoke ring above Hutch's head. It hung there like a halo.
'Can I trust you, Carver?' said Hutch. 'Can I?' Carver flicked his fringe out of his eyes. 'Thing of it is, Hutch, can you afford not to?'
Hutch nodded slowly. 'What is it you want me to do?'
HUTCH WAITED UNTIL THE guard's footsteps had faded into the distance before slipping the piece of metal from its hiding place in the foam rubber mat. He'd shoved the file in the mat when the guard had come to take him for the late-night visit, but he realised with a jolt that it was missing. He looked around the cell frantically. Joshua was awake, lying on his side and grinning at Hutch.,
'Don't fuck about, Joshua,' Hutch said.
Joshua sat up and tossed the file over to Hutch. 'You're breaking out, aren't you?' '
'Oh sure. I'm digging a tunnel. Wanna come?'
'Where did you go?'
'I had a visitor.'
'At night? You can't have visitors at night. And it isn't Thursday. Foreigners are only allowed visitors on Thursdays.'
'Blood hell, Joshua, are you bucking for trustee status or what?'
Joshua went over to Hutch and sat down next to him. 'I want to go with you,' he whispered.
Hutch started filing the piece of metal. 'You can't,' said Hutch.
'I can help.'
'I don't need your help.' He brushed away the metal filings and examined the progress he'd made.
'How? How are you going to get out?'
'I'm not sure yet.'
'But you're making a key?'
'No, this is a CD player. Of course it's a key.'
'So you've got a plan?'
'Yeah. I've got a plan. But it doesn't involve you, Joshua. I'm sorry.'
The Nigerian drew his knees up against his chest. He watched Hutch work away at the piece of metal. 'How are you doing that? How do you know what shape to make it?'
'I've had a good look at the key they use. All I'm doing is making an approximate copy. Then I'll fine tune it.'
'So then you can get out of the cell. Then what? You've got the guards, the walls, the wire. How are you going to get out?'
Hutch stopped filing and blew the metal dust away. 'Can you keep a secret, Joshua?'
The Nigerian leaned forward, his eyes bright. 'Sure.'
'Good. So can I.'
For a moment or two the Nigerian didn't get it, then he began to chuckle. Hutch motioned for him to be quiet. He didn't want the rest of the cell waking up. Joshua slapped Hutch on the knee. 'Okay, man, I'll help you.' He got to his feet.
'Like I said, I don't need your help.'
'I can keep watch for you. I'll tell you if the guards come up.'
The guards tended to stay on the lower level during the night and most of the time they were asleep in the office, but occasionally one would walk lethargically around the cells. Joshua went to stand by the door, threading his arms through and resting his head against the bars. Hutch bent his head down and began filing again.
TIM CARVER'S DRIVER DROPPED him outside the block which housed the DEA's offices and pointedly looked at his watch.
Carver smiled. 'Okay, I won't be needing you again,' he said. In fact he would have preferred the driver to take him home after he'd finished what he had to do, but it was already past midnight and the man had a family to go to. The driver acknowledged Carver with a slight nod. He was offended, Carver realised, and he wondered what exactly he'd done or said. Thai sensibilities were a minefield, and no matter how carefully he trod, a Westerner would always make mistakes. It could have been asking the driver to work late that had upset him, or the fact THE SOLITARY MAN 263 that he hadn't told him how long he was expected to wait outside the prison. Or it could have been something Carver had said a week ago. Trying to work out what made a Thai tick was akin to solving quadratic equations blindfolded, an almost impossible and pointless task. 'Thank you,' he added. As he climbed out of the car, Carver suddenly realised that he'd spoken to the driver in Thai. The driver was an accomplished English speaker and overly proud of his linguistic ability. By addressing him in Thai, Carver was inadvertently suggesting that the driver's English was less than perfect and that communication would be easier in his first language. That was probably what had offended him. Carver made a mental note to use only English the next time he was in the car.
He showed his identification to the uniformed security guard and went up to the sixth floor. He ran his security card through the reader at the door to the DEA offices and tapped in his PIN number. The DEA offices were deserted. He got himself a black coffee from the machine in the corridor and went through to his office. His computer was already switched on and winged toasters were drifting aimlessly across the VDU. He lit a Marlboro and clicked the mouse, selecting his Internet connection. The modem clicked and dialled and once he was connected he sent a brief coded message to Jake Gregory's e-mail address.
AFTER TWO NIGHTS OF working on the key, Hutch was ready to try it. One of the Hong Kong Chinese had stomach problems and was getting up every half-hour to use the toilet and Hutch had to wait until the man was asleep before creeping over to the door.
Joshua was leaning against the bars, peering down into the courtyard below. He was half asleep and he jumped as Hutch tapped him on the shoulder. 'What?' he said, through half-closed eyes.
'Time to give it a go,' said Hutch. He put his hand through the bars and slotted the key into the lock. He turned it. It met resistance almost immediately. He pulled the key out. Disappointment was written all over Joshua's face. Hutch took a box of matches from 264 STEPHEN LEATHER his shirt pocket. 'Hold this,' said Hutch, handing the key to the Nigerian. Hutch lit a match and ran it up and down the makeshift key, blackening the bright metal with the smoke. It took five matches to cover the entire end of the key with smoky residue. He took the key back and inserted it once again into the lock. He withdrew it slowly and examined the end. There were scratches in the blackened surface, marking the places where the key had been prevented from turning. Hutch used the pointed end of the file to scratch the surface of the metal.