“It’s too quiet…” He spoke little Russian but knew that all Soviet special forces spoke good German and used that language. “Check the gates.”
The man nodded and, pulling an automatic from his pocket, disappeared into the night. Quayle and the other stood together and began to move round the wall to the service doors at the rear of the house.
One minute later, they were in. The back door to the kitchen was open. Moving into the house carefully, they checking room by room, moving methodically towards the room where the lights were on.
It turned out to be a small crowded bedroom, probably used by a servant. Someone had cleared out recently and quickly. There was still cigarette smoke on the air, and drawers had been hurriedly emptied as the occupant moved out. Satisfied that there was nothing more to see, they moved back into the main section of the house, down corridors kept dark by heavy drapes.
They first bodyguard was slumped back against a wall, dead. He had been killed with one shot. The second, who had suffered a similar fate, was sprawled face down on the hall carpet. Quayle’s Soviet ally picked up his firearm and sniffed the barrel, shaking his head. He hadn’t even got one shot away.
It was then the Spetznatz man heard it. A shuffle or a scrape on the carpet behind a door, followed by a liquidy moan.
Quayle moved up from the door he was at and listened. Then, taking the initiative, he pushed to door open, the Soviet, with his firearm drawn, moving close behind.
They heard it again. Quayle felt for the lights and, finding the switch, turned them on.
“Oh fuck,” the Soviet said in English.
There, tied in a chair in the middle of the room was a something – a person, still alive, blood everywhere on the cream thick shag pile carpet. Through the blood and the pain and the tortured features, Quayle recognised Fung Wa. His legs were spread and tied back to the chair legs and his groin was black with blood that had dried, its central area still bright red and fresh. His face was contorted in pain and his mouth seemed to be gagged.
As they moved closer. Quayle saw that the gag wasn’t cloth. Whoever had castrated him had taken the penis as well as his testicles, pushing the whole bloody piece of his manhood into his mouth.
The Soviet dropped to his knees and produced a battle medic pack from the voluminous pockets in his jacket, then swiftly produced an ampoule of morphine. He looked at Quayle who nodded.
“Keep him conscious,” he warned softly. “I want him to talk.”
The special forces man nodded and pushed the hypodermic straight into the Fung Wa’s thigh. Pressing the plunger, he forced the drug into his bloodstream. Then, taking a large battle dressing, he forced it over the gaping hole in Fung Wa’s trousers, his hand applying the necessary pressure to halt the blood flow, his other hand pulling out a mini disposable saline drip and tossing it to Quayle.
Quayle knew what to do. Stripping the paper off the needle, he pushed it through Fung Wa’s shirt sleeve into his arm. Then, draping the bag over the wounded man’s shoulder, he watched as gravity began to feed the solution into Fung Wa’s arm.
Soon, the morphine was taking effect. Fung Wa’s breathing turned from the ragged sharp shallow breaths of a man in extreme pain to a deeper, measured normality. Quayle reached up and gently pulled the bloody mass of gristle, skin and tissues from his mouth.
“Who did this?” he asked. “Beijing? Fung Wa, you’re dying. You’re going to meet you ancestors. They have killed you! You owe them nothing. Nothing!”
The Chinese eyes flickered open. The life force had gone. They were flat and glazed.
“Was this Beijing or Geneva? Was this Geneva?”
Fung Wa nodded, blood weakly dripping down his front.
Geneva. Jesus Christ! Two hours was all they had. They got in did the job and were gone. They’re close, thought Quayle. They are very close indeed.
“Who in Geneva?” Quayle demanded.
“Not... not…” The man’s voice was a rasping whisper, and Quayle lent forward to hear. “Not Geneva. Chamon… Chamon… Gira.”
“Chamongira. A name?”
“Name.. is.. Girad... French..” Each word was tortured, produced by the last reserves of Fung Wa’s strength.
“Girard?”
He nodded weakly. French, not Geneva. Quayle’s mind raced. Somewhere near Chamon?
“Chamonix?”
Fung Wa nodded again, his head dropping forward. Quayle pulled it up. Not fucking Geneva at all. Just the nearest airport and big city. Chamonix. He knew the valley. The Arve and above it Mont Blanc, the Aigulle Du Midi and the Brevent. He had climbed there years before. It was big. Too big to find one Frenchman called Girard.
“Where in Chamonix can I find him? I will kill him for you. I will spit in his face with your name on my lips, Fung Wa. Don’t die yet. Where? Tell me where!”
The thought of Quayle after them as he had been after him, seemed to give Fung Wa renewed strength.
“Albert... Albert Hotel…”
“They stay there?”
“No Chalet. Big Chalet. Guards good table at Albert.”
Quayle knew the Albert. The old hotel was the favourite of the visiting Americans and its food was good, rated in the Michelin guide.
Fung Wa’s head dropped forward again. Quayle looked at the Soviet – but he just shook his head and gestured at all the blood on the floor. In front of their eyes, Fung Wa began to shiver, and Quayle knew that this was the last stage of massive blood loss, the remaining blood unable to keep the body warm, the heart pumping still trying to keep blood going to the brain and vital organs. It was a cold and lonely way to die.
At that moment, the second soldier entered through the door. He didn’t seem surprised at what he saw.
“Guards dead,” he reported. “Two cars gone. No staff anywhere. No sign of the wife and kid.”
“Let’s go,” Quayle said. There was no saving
