Time Stops Ticking

By Simon Gray

china, desperate to secure its status as the world’s new superpower, develops a plan to trade water for oil with the middle east, however a computer disc describing the deal is stolen by a disgruntled government employee with intention of smuggling it to the west.
a situation that should be a world away from four disconnected british school friends, embarking on a re-bonding cycling holiday. they meet up with the rest of the group in hong kong and start cycling through the non-tourist countryside of southern china. a place where economic prosperity has yet to be felt. as they ride, slowly the gaps in their friendships are revealed.
the disc smuggler is caught and a vicious criminal gang boss is secretly employed by the chinese government to track down who the disc has been sent onto.
unknown to the others, one of the friends has been working as a government courier and uses the holiday as an opportunity to help the u.s. government smuggle the disc from china.
the gang leader catches up and starts to eliminate the group one by one to find the courier.
their tour leader also has a secret plan; kidnapping several members with the intention of bringing worldwide publicity to the chinese government’s program of forced land acquisition for economic development; forcing land owners off the land for little or no compensation.
their friendships in ruins, one friend is determined not to give up on what he believes is the thread that knits together all that life is worth living for, he finds where the gang leader is holding the others and attempts a rescue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Gray
• Release date: Nov 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465906236

Simon Gray

Simon Gray (1936–2008) was a British playwright, novelist and screenwriter. He wrote more than thirty stage plays, amongst them Butley and Otherwise Engaged (which both received Evening Standard Awards for Best Play), Quartermaine's Terms, The Common Pursuit, The Late Middle Classes (winner of the Barclay's Best Play Award), Japes, The Old Masters and Little Nell.

Book preview

Time Stops Ticking

Simon M Gray

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Simon M Gray

http://www.simonmgray.com

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Prologue

Kashi: population 190,000. Western terminus in the barren Xinjiang Uygur; autonomous region of China.

Hu Lee pressed his forehead to the window of the People's Republic of China Trade Ministry’s Airbus 320. The yellow-brown landscape blurred to rolling sludge behind his tears. The flaps extended, as the pilot banked for the military air base, five miles north of Kashi whose buildings below, looked like acne on a ravaged face. An important commercial outpost for China, populated by Uigur; their flat caps and swarthy, dark Middle Eastern complexions testimony that Kashi used to be the capital of the Uigur Turks in AD 750, passing definitively to China in 1760 from the hereditary Muslim kings of the Khojar. There had since been uprisings and periods of contested control but the hardship and suffering within those nondescript buildings was not the cause of Hu Lee’s tears.

He blinked rapidly while removing his glasses, aware that a colleague with inquisitive eyes was glancing his way. Hu Lee pinched the bridge of his nose, making a show of popping his ears. Brushing away the tears, he nodded curtly before glancing down the aisle to the VIP seating where the Minister for Trade was holding court with his closest advisors. Hu Lee frowned. He should be there. He had been in the department longer. Passed over twice for promotion. His wife had hinted he was spineless. He hadn’t argued. What could he do anyway? He hadn’t been promoted because the Minister didn’t think he was ready. Hu Lee pulled at his seat belt, feeling it squeeze against his already knotted stomach. He had accepted his situation – until last month’s signing of the Russian agreement.

Hu Lee’s hands balled to fists. Two years of intensive investigation and negotiation with contacts he alone had nurtured, putting together a rescue package for Russia’s Yulos oil company, involving a secretive $6 billion loan from Eximbank, the Chinese Export-Import Bank, to another mid-sized Russian oil company, giving them enough resources to buy the Yulos’s oil fields, on the understanding they would supply the China National Petroleum Corporation, on a fixed, $75 per barrel contract. The Russians were happy; the Mafia pleased that no foreign-owned company was moving into their territory. Hu Lee had even managed to secure the building of the pipeline to a prominent Shanghai construction company. It had been his deal but the Minister had given him no credit.

The A320 sank towards the ground. It was not enough, he realised sadly. There was a quiet panic throughout the government. A panic which had put a massive burden on the Trade Ministry. Through their hard work and the people's dedication, China was now the fastest-growing economy in the world and would be bigger than the United States by 2015. China was already the second largest oil consumer, but needed more – much more.

Hu Lee watched the sunlight reflect off the onion-shaped dome of the Aidkah Mosque. He could see the streets now, crammed with people and animals dodging vehicles, many of which were heading for the mountain passes to the Middle East.

The pilot announced they would land at the airbase in two minutes.

The United States had not been happy with his Russian deal. Hu Lee adjusted his seatbelt. Perhaps that was why the Minister had not promoted him. He had failed to realise that several of Yulos’s major shareholders were US oil companies. They were now threatening to sue Eximbank for facilitating the sale of Yulos, which in their opinion was in defiance to a US bankruptcy court ruling in Houston, Texas.

The wheels of the A320 thudded onto the tarmac at the People's Liberation Army Airforce base, braking hard between ranks of Su-30 Flanker fighter-bombers. The A320 manoeuvred between the swept wings and needle-pointed noses, across interconnecting strips of concrete before stopping beside a Boeing 747, unmarked except for a discreet crown high on the tail.

They had been delayed in Beijing and should have arrived before their guests. The Trade Minister was not pleased. To avoid loss of face, he would have his Personal Assistant make the necessary apology before shaking hands.

Hu Lee followed the line of dark suits to a waiting bus. The Minister and his entourage departed in a convoy of black limousines. A Bedouin-designed marquee was set up on ground near the PLAAF base for the signing process later that afternoon.

Hu Lee, if he was lucky, would witness the moment. More likely, he would be kept back at the trailers – three temporary offices for him and his colleagues to check the amendments their guests had made to the 250-page document. They were pushed for time, Hu Lee thought, draping his jacket over the back of a plastic chair. He had been assigned the task of confirming the oil volume quota had not changed.

If the United States had not been happy about his Russian deal, then they were going to be incensed with the one his Minister was about to sign.

The US, with its usual arrogance, had yet to realise what the next worldwide flashpoint was going to be. Through its blinkered self-interest it believed that oil was the most important resource, but China, in its wisdom, had found something more important to trade with the Arab oil producing nations. Something far more desirable than guns and bullets and the promise of western democracy. Something that their guests could only produce very expensively. Something that their sun-baked lands could only create by using more of the oil they desperately needed to export.

Water.

Hu Lee sat back in his chair. With the population growth in the oil producing Arab countries, their requirement for water was reaching critical levels. Their desalination plants, that converted seawater through advanced osmosis technology, used copious quantities of oil and could still barely produce enough for their burgeoning populations. The fact that many of them were angry with America’s military involvement in the region and what seemed their open aggressiveness against Muslims, had made the Chinese proposal all the sweeter. As Hu Lee stared blankly at the pages, a few miles north pipelines were being laid, like a new Wall of China – except that they were hidden from satellite imaging, passing through tunnels and keeping to the black shadows of deep passes to the Middle East. This time next year, they would be carrying millions of gallons of fresh water to the desert lands on the Arabian Peninsula from the vast underground North China Plain aquifers. In return, China would receive oil to sustain her economic development.

Hu Lee sat forward and rested his elbows on the desk. It was a brilliant agreement. His Minister was being highly praised. But, it was also dangerous and destabilising for the entire world. The United States, historically, did not react well when threatened. Hu Lee could feel his shirt sticking to his back. His deal had been brilliant too. A sound business strategy – except for overlooking the bankruptcy ruling. Still, he had deserved recognition.

A few more days and his Minister would truly regret ignoring him.

Chapter 1

‘You ready?’

The man next to him pulled nervously at the seatbelt. ‘Go for it!’

Leo checked the pit lane was clear, dropped the clutch – and the rear tyres squealed, smoke pouring from the rubber. The BMW M3 struggled to keep the horsepower on the road. Leo expertly counteracted the sliding rear as it fought for grip. The V8 bellowed as he rapid-shifted up through the gears, speed quickly climbing past 120 mph. The first corner, he could feel the man next to him going rigid, his hands clutching at an imaginary wheel, his foot stamping on a non-existent brake, Leo took the gentle right-hander at top speed; the man next to him shouted ‘whooaa,’ which turned to an embarrassed laugh. They were through and racing down the dip to the next, sharper, right-hander. Down through the six-speed sequential gearbox, engine bellowing, the carbon-fibre brakes effortlessly bringing the BMW down to 50 mph, the rumble of concrete protecting the corner apex. A squeal of rubber, another ‘whooaa,’ from his passenger and Leo hit the accelerator, the BMW leaping forward up through the gears.

The first lap he always pushed to the limit, perhaps to rub their noses in it, but more likely to keep the buzz that had got him into motor sport. The next two laps, however, he took more leisurely, giving his passenger time to understand the instructions he was relaying: what gear he should be in, when he should start braking, how to set the car up for each corner.

The end of the third lap, Leo pulled off the circuit, the engine rumbling as they parked under the marquee supporting the corporate logo for that day’s guest. His passenger fumbled with the racing harness as his friends gave him the thumbs-up, champagne spilling from their glasses. Leo reached over and helped release the catches. ‘You liked that?’

‘Bloody fantastic,’ the man said, a sickly grin on his red face, his cheeks compressed by the helmet, sweat on his top lip.

Leo’s mechanic opened the door.

The man rolled out, puking over the concrete, his colleagues cheering manically, slapping his backside as he crawled from the side of the car. He reached the table, pulled himself into a chair and accepted a glass of champagne while pulling off his helmet, letting it clatter to the floor.

‘Who’s next?’ Leo called, shaking his head at his mechanic who looked up disgustedly from the floor. It paid the bills, and after his short-lived professional career, he should thank these city bankers. He earned more now than he ever had racing.

No-one volunteered.

‘Come on you wankers, I’m not paying for you to drink champagne all day,’ the fat man who had puked over the floor shouted.

A woman stepped forward from the edge of the group. Tight jeans, high heels, long Blond hair, windswept over the turned-up collar of a black North Face jacket. She leant in through the door, the mechanic stepping out of the way with a sly wink.

‘Leo, you promised I could have a drive,’ she pouted, wiggling her arse at the men standing behind her. She was one of the directors for the fund managers and had spent her instruction laps telling him how much money she had earned last year, despite the downturn and credit crunch. He hadn’t asked the question, but had given up trying to teach her the skills of racing as she concentrated on describing how her new Porsche handled.

Leo reluctantly let her into the driving seat, his mechanic adjusting its settings. ‘Don’t you have any other shoes?’ he asked the woman, looking sideways at Leo.

‘I drive my Porsche with these. This is only a BMW!’

The crowd laughed.

Leo knew how much his mechanic hated his beloved cars being ruined by these people.

His other drivers came in from the track. Leo looked at his watch as he climbed in beside the blond. Only another hour.

Her name was Claire, and she stalled the car twice on leaving the marquee. Each time the men outside cheered; each time she swore and gave them the finger.

‘Try without your shoes on,’ Leo suggested.

‘Bollocks, I can do this,’ she retorted, and eventually she drove onto the track, red lining in the first two gears, aggressively stamping on the brake for the corner, missing the apex and pulling away in fourth, the V8 manfully coping with the torture.

‘OK, change up ... no, that’s down ... brake ... brake ... brake ...’ Leo shouted as the BMW left the track, gravel crackling against the black paintwork.

‘Bollocks!’ she screamed, stamping even harder on the accelerator. The car spun and stalled.

Her mobile phone rang.

Leo looked incredulous as she calmly reached into her pocket and answered it. ‘Oh, hello darling, how are you?’ She tilted the rear view mirror and swept a strand of hair back under the helmet.

‘Oh, did you!’ she gasped, ‘What was he like?’

‘Excuse me Claire, you’re going to have to do that later, we’re in a dangerous place here.’

Clare rolled her eyes, blowing a kiss from cherry-red lips. ‘Listen darling, I’m going to have to call you back, I’m racing at the moment.’

‘Do you have a girlfriend, Leo?’ Claire asked, having spent a few minutes trying to get the BMW started again.

‘No ... you can accelerate ...’

‘Why not?’ She looked at him.

‘Keep your eyes on the track. Look, you’re going too fast for this corner ...’

‘Bollocks!’

‘Jesus Claire! Do you put as much concentration as this into your business?’

‘Cheeky bugger. No, honestly, why haven’t you got a girl? You race cars. You’re not bad looking ...’

What could he tell her? Girls got pissed off pretty quickly with a moody, failed racing driver.

An hour later and the last of them weaved out of the car park, the fat Chief Executive’s green Bentley narrowly missing the gate post.

‘Right, you are going to manage without me, aren’t you?’ Leo asked, looking at his employees – three other drivers, the mechanic and administrative manager, the office and marketing manager. ‘Course we are,’ they chorused, grinning.

Leo shook his head wearily. ‘Just don’t damage any of the cars.’ He searched for his phone in his racing overalls. Dialled a pre-set number.

‘Mate! How’s it going? You ready?’

There was a slight pause. ‘Yeah Leo, no worries. What time do we have to be at the airport?’

Leo looked at his watch. ‘Five hours. You want me to swing by and pick you up at the showroom?’

‘No, I’m not working late. I’ll get the missus to drop me off.’

‘You alright?’ Leo asked, stepping out of his overalls.

‘Yeah, of course. Just a shit load to do.’

‘We’re going to have fun.’

‘Yeah,’ Tom replied, and the phone went dead.

Chapter 2

‘Tesco! You’ve missed the bloody deadline for Tesco?’ Vib pulled his tie from his neck, unhooking a button.

His Production Manager crossed his arms tightly. ‘I told you last week we needed a new part for that machine.’

‘Fuck off. You didn’t tell me it was critical.’

‘You knew, without it we couldn’t seal the jars properly.’ The Production Manager uncrossed his arms and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

‘Fuck you … fuck you,’ Vib shouted.

‘You can’t talk to me like that.’ The Production Manager’s red face was glistening with perspiration.

‘Fuck you, I’ll talk to you ...’

‘Vib!’ A well-dressed, elderly man entered. ‘Everyone can hear you.’ A cuff-linked arm pointed out through the glass partition to employees at their desks.

‘What?’ Vib looked briefly from his office. ‘I don’t fucking care. This arsehole has just cost us a fortune.’ Vib waved his hand dismissively at the Production Manager.

‘Would you give us a minute,’ the elderly man said quietly, smoothing silver hair behind his ears. He lowered himself into Vib’s chair, crossing his legs. ‘Sit down Vib.’

Vib shook his head irritably, pacing in front of the desk, his handsome face set in an ugly scowl.

‘Do you think this is the right way to handle the situation?’ the elderly man asked.

‘He’s lost us ...’

‘Has he?’

Vib stopped pacing.

‘I’ve read the report on that machine, the elderly man continued. 'A requisition was put in for a spare part the beginning of last week. Why didn’t you authorise it?’

‘I’m too busy.’

‘You’re inefficient.’

‘I’m not! He should have told me how urgent it was.’

‘He did.’ The elderly man’s silver eyebrows arrowed to the bridge of his hooked nose. ‘You have not read the report, have you?’

‘Mr. Patel, look ... I can’t be responsible for ...’

‘You are the General Manager,’ Patel growled. ‘You are responsible for everything.’

‘That’s not fair.’ Vib blushed, his Indian skin darkening. He swept a lock of dark hair from his face.

‘What’s not fair,’ Patel stared unblinking, ‘is that I had to employ you in the first place.’

Vib looked down at his hands. ‘You don’t mean that. Since I’ve taken over, turnover has quadrupled.’

‘You did not take over,’ Patel said ominously. ‘You married my only daughter. I’m told, I had no choice.’

‘I bought Tesco into the company,’ Vib said, standing straighter.

‘We got Tesco because our sauces are the very best. That is the only reason.’

Vib slumped into a chair, avoiding the penetrating stare. Sweat ran down the inside of his shirt. He felt every eye in the office on him; his anger boiled from the humiliation.

‘You’re going away this evening, aren’t you?’ Patel said quietly, drumming his fingers on the desk.

‘It’s not important. I can cancel,’ Vib said, suddenly scared.

‘It was a stupid idea in the first place, leaving my company and my daughter alone for two weeks.’

‘I’ll cancel.’ Vib leant forward in the chair.

‘No, I think you should go.’ Patel stood and walked to the door. ‘It’ll give us a chance to get things back to normal.’ He opened the door. ‘Give you a chance to think seriously about your future.’

Vib controlled his urge to race across the floor and punch the superior expression from the old man’s face, to pick up the chair and crash it down on his manicured hair, breaking that stupid great nose, ripping his expensive suit. He buried his head in his hands, shaking with rage.

Vib's mobile vibrated. He picked it up without looking.

‘Hey buddy, you ready for the big off?’

‘What?’ Vib said, clenching the phone tightly.

‘Mate, it’s me, Dan ...’

‘Oh, yeah ... sorry.’

‘You don’t sound in the holiday spirit!’

‘Fucking holiday.’

There was a crash in the background. ‘Damn it,’ Dan shouted. ‘Listen, could you swing by the restaurant and pick me up? Janine has the car this evening.’

‘I ... er, I don’t know. I’m going to be here pretty late.’

There was silence and Vib could hear the clink of cutlery. ‘Yeah, alright,’ he said irritably. ‘I’ll be there around seven.’

‘Cutting it fine, isn’t it mate?’

‘I don’t give a shit. I’ll see you later.’ Vib slammed the phone on his desk and glared at the Production Manager, now talking to his father-in-law.

Chapter 3

Daniel looked at the phone in his hand. Poor Vib, he really couldn’t cope with the stress. He swilled the glass of red wine in his hand, looking over the rim at the young waitress picking up the shards of china. Janine had just employed her. Polish girl. Long legs in tight jeans; good figure, he thought, watching her bend and pick up the broken plate.

Janine appeared from the kitchen, Sheila, their manager, struggling to keep up. ‘OK, get the candles lit,’ Janine ordered, scowling at her husband. ‘You really got time to sit there drinking?’

‘Nope,’ Daniel said, getting resignedly to his feet. ‘Sheila, are you OK with the ordering schedule?’ he smiled at the harassed looking woman.

‘I…I think so…yeah…Renata, could you light the table candles please?’

The Polish girl frowned.

Janine clicked her fingers irritably at the tables. ‘Candles dear, light the bloody candles.’

Daniel searched his pocket and found a box of matches. ‘Here, use these,’ he said.

‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.’ Janine was close to tears. ‘I really can’t.’

Daniel finished the wine and made sure the price was right for the bottle on the menu. ‘We talked about this, remember? Up until yesterday, you said it was fine. It would do me good.’

‘What about me, how am I going to cope with two restaurants and a baby?’

‘You don’t have to cope. Sheila is perfectly capable and Harry’s been in the business longer than me, so you don’t have to worry about that either.’

‘I can’t believe you’re pissing off for two weeks and just ... leaving me.’

‘I need a rest,’ Daniel said, watching the traffic. Four-thirty, already dark, he thought sadly. ‘I’ve been doing this for two years solidly. I need time out.’

‘What about me?’

He gazed at his wife, hair, tied in a pony-tail, making her face look fatter than usual. The tip of her pointed nose was pink; it always was whenever she was angry or about to cry. He reached for her but she backed away, eyes brimming. ‘Sod off, that’s not going to help.’

‘But honey we discussed this. You said it was OK.’

‘You don’t love me anymore, do you?’

Daniel looked at Sheila with embarrassment. ‘Of course I do. But the doctor said I needed a break, remember?’

Janine sniffed, snatching a napkin from a table and blowing her nose. ‘You could have just stayed at home.’

Daniel poured himself another glass of wine. ‘And I probably would have, if Leo hadn’t called.’

‘Your friends are more important than me.’

‘Rubbish. I haven’t seen them in months.’ Daniel went towards the kitchen; he wanted to make sure the chef was happy. ‘Everything’s under control. Don’t worry. Vib will pick me up at about seven, so you can leave if you like.’

‘Fine, I will.’ Janine snatched up her handbag. The door banged open – a blast of frigid air, and she was gone.

Chapter 4

Hu Lee worked tirelessly in the cramped conditions ensuring the agreed oil quota remained unchanged. He spotted the Arabs' five percent increase in the water quantity supplied during a 24-hour cycle. This amounted to millions of gallons. Concern rippled through the team that it would put a crippling burden on the North China Plain aquifers.

The scientists had spent months analysing the aquifers, studying the replenishment rates, arriving at a safe figure at which the vast underground lakes could be drained. They had reduced the figure a further ten percent to add in a margin of error. The Trade Ministry, together with the Eximbank and the Ministry for Finance, had spent months discussing a fair water-to-oil value. Now, at the eleventh hour, they had changed the percentages because of the volatile price of worldwide crude.

Hu Lee turned forward to the appendix for his section and used his finger to follow each character. Starting on the right, he slowly ran his finger down the column, making sure he understood each word and phrase, double-checking there was no hidden meaning. The Trade Minister still insisted that all documents were produced in the column format, reading right to left, which added to his concentration levels. He was used to reading newspapers, books and practically every other piece of information, in rows on a left to right basis. The only advantage to a right to left document was that Arabic followed the same format.

Hu Lee read: 'Crude oil prices reached a record high in October of $105.17 per barrel, a significant leap from the 2003 average of $31.10. Factors that combined to contribute to the continued upward trend are: high growth of petroleum demand centred on China …'

He sat back and nodded. The Arabs were telling them they understood how desperate their economy was for oil.

He leant forward again. '… the tight supply and demand situation in the US petroleum product market; a marked drop in surplus supply capacity in the international petroleum market; terrorism and conflicts; oil company financial and operational problems; and other problems in major petroleum producing countries such as Iraq, Nigeria and Russia." The appendix then examined each point and drew a solid conclusion that oil prices were always going to rise. Hu Lee appreciated that the Arabs, literally, had them over a barrel.

He loosened his tie and looked nervously for his section boss. He was a stickler for dress code.

Hu Lee glanced through the dusty window. The huge white marquee was a dazzling contrast to the baked soil. The sun was settling on the distant peaks like an orange on a juice squeezer. The barren mountains were the border with Kazakhstan. It was an alien and desolate landscape, and Hu Lee shivered, despite the temperature.

‘Lee!’