Borrowed Time Page 14

  ‘So tell me and I’ll stop being such an aggravation.’

  He told her about the wrecking of a sportsman’s career, and the casual savagery that had been the stock in trade of Seaton back in the days before he took to the Indian hills.

  ‘In that case I believe you’ve every right to catch him and do your worst,’ Sabrina said. ‘Just remember he’s not likely to be a sitting duck.’

  ‘Breakfast,’ Ram announced, putting a plateful of eggs, bacon and toast in front of Sabrina. ‘Eat.’

  She was starving and she ploughed through the food with a minimum of decorum. As she dropped her knife and fork and grabbed her mug of coffee, Ram came over from the window, where he had been reading Hafi’s papers.

  ‘This is interesting, in a grim kind of way.’ He held up a sheet of yellow paper with tiny writing on it. ‘It’s from a Unit Commander called Sadjit. He reports that on a scouting mission in the Vale of Kashmir, one of the men in the unit caught a recruiting officer …’

  ‘What kind of recruiting officer?’ Mike said.

  ‘A man who recruited mules. This Sadjit and one of his lieutenants tortured the man to get information from him. They were too zealous, and the man died before they were able to learn very much, but before he expired they were able to learn that the upmarket drugs are manufactured in the Grotto of Moksha.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ Lenny said.

  Sabrina asked what moksha was.

  ‘A Hindu concept,’ Ram said. ‘It is taught that all people go through a series of reincarnations that eventually lead to moksha. Moksha is the spiritual salvation that frees a person from the cycle of rebirths.’

  ‘That’s when a person’s karma gets all straightened out, is it?’ Mike said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘In that case it’ll be a few centuries before Mike gets a glimpse of moksha,’ Sabrina said. She saw Mike scowl. ‘Same goes for me,’ she added quickly.

  17

  Amrit set off before first light. By the time the sun was up and he could feel its warmth on his face he had gone fifteen kilometres. The dirty, nondescript sack swung from his shoulder and his sandals kicked up dust as he strode along at a marching pace.

  Eventually he would travel without surveillance, but for probably the first third of his journey, there was no way to tell if he was being watched. Mike had told him to presume someone was watching all the time. Amrit sensibly mistrusted everyone he saw along the way. A large percentage of the surveillance provided to criminal institutions came from casual informers and paid hangers-on, the slurry of society who could whisper to lethal effect. Every tramp and low-life was a potential seeing-eye that led all the way back to the men with the power.

  Amrit had been walking for three hours when he spotted a beggar he had been watching for. The man was tall and stooping, with a small red patch on his filthy grey turban. He stood by the roadside coughing against the palm of one hand while he held out the other to passers-by.

  Amrit fished in his pocket as he approached the beggar and pulled out a crumpled banknote. He tossed it to the man, who caught it, brought his hands together with the fingertips touching his chin and bowed, muttering elaborate thanks.

  When Amrit had gone past the beggar stood there a while longer, still coughing fitfully, still putting out his hand to everyone who passed. Finally he glanced up at the sun, mopped his forehead with his arm and began walking in the direction of Srinagar.

  Hours later he reached the town and made his way through a network of back streets, several times doubling back and stopping to cough. Finally, when he had spent twenty minutes threading through variations of a route around the same seven little streets, he slipped suddenly into a darkened doorway with a sign above it advertising a motorbike courier service. He pushed open the door beyond and threw himself into a chair in front of a desk.

  ‘The things I do for authenticity,’ he groaned. ‘Tea, for the love of God …’

  There was a rattle of cups in the tiny kitchen off the main office. A moment later Mike Graham brought in a steaming mug. He put it in front of the beggar, who pulled off his turban and revealed himself to be Ram Jarwal.

  ‘Mission accomplished, I hope.’ He took a gulp of tea. ‘Lord, that’s just in time. Another minute and I’d have expired.’ He fumbled in the pocket of his pantaloons and threw the crumpled banknote on the desk.

  Mike opened it and spread it out flat. ‘That’s great. Hey, Lenny!’

  Lenny Trent was in a small room at the back, viewing videotape of a suspected heroin peddler operating in one of the town markets. He switched off the VCR and went through to the office.

  ‘Your boy has done us proud,’ Mike said.

  He pointed at the smoothed banknote. Stuck to its surface was a white label on which Amrit had scrawled a summary of his route to the Chinese border, with details of a rendezvous at a town called Boyding.

  ‘I hope nobody saw him do that,’ Ram said.

  ‘They wouldn’t,’ Lenny said. ‘We rehearsed that one till he had it oil smooth. The drill is first, he memorizes the details of where, what, and when, then when he’s off and walking, he slides his hand into his pocket and flattens the banknote against his leg. He pauses for a minute to get something out of his eye with one hand and uses the other hand to scribble out the message with an old stub of pencil he has in his pocket.’ Lenny winked. ‘He’s a talented fellow.’

  Later, back at the cabin, Mike, Sabrina and Lenny sat round the big table in the sitting room, mapping out a plan of assault against Paul Seaton and his bandits. Ram snored quietly on the couch.

  Lenny asked if they were agreed on their objective.

  ‘If we can be sure Mike keeps his personal feelings under control,’ Sabrina said.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Mike snapped. ‘The objective is direct and uncomplicated. We grab Seaton and bring him in for questioning.’

  ‘You definitely believe he’s involved in the upmarket drug trade?’ Sabrina said.

  ‘It’s practically tailor-made for a man like him. High-risk, high-profit. The elements of disruption and sedition running alongside — they’re his mark, too.’ Mike nodded firmly. ‘I’d put money on it. Seaton’s our guy. Or he’s one of them. Catch him and we’re halfway to getting a handle on the big-bucks trade and wrecking it.’

  A number of ideas had been formulated, talked over and discarded. One that kept coming up without really being rejected was that they use a team of police marksmen for cover and fire-power while they separate Seaton from his men. The plan had two areas of difficulty that tended to make it look like a non-starter: for one thing, police marksmen were in critically short supply in Srinagar; for another, it would take a helicopter to transport the team to the target area, and the local UN machine would not be available for three days at the earliest.

  ‘We could always try asking Commissioner Mantur,’ Mike said. ‘When he refuses we’ll at least know that road is completely shut off and we can stop considering it.’

  On the third attempt Mike got through to the Commissioner. He explained the plan and the predicament, as he saw it.

  ‘Then let me tell it to you as I see it, Mr Graham,’ Mantur said. ‘It is not only numbers of men that I lack, but numbers of bullets for them to fire, on those rare occasions when they can put up a concerted show of belligerence against the villainy which envelopes us in these parts. As for transport, well you are right, you couldn’t expect us to provide that. However, perhaps there is another way of looking at all this.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘The various departments of the UN have provision in their budgeting for ad hoc ventures, am I not correct?’

  ‘Well yes, I believe so.’

  ‘Well why don’t you get in touch with your people and suggest an ad hoc assault on these bandits you are so keen to intercept, and talk over with them the matter of ad hoc finance.’

  Mike thought about it.

  ‘OK, I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘What
kind of figure should I mention?’

  Mantur was silent for a moment. ‘In US dollars,’ he said finally, ‘if we are talking about the hire for half a day of ten marksmen, plus the hire, fuel and pilot fee for a helicopter, I think we would be talking in the region of fifteen thousand US dollars.’

  Mike thought about it. ‘I can try,’ he said.

  Philpott was not available. Mike spoke to C.W. Whitlock, who seemed preoccupied. ‘I need authorization to hire the marksmen and the helicopter,’ Mike pressed him. ‘Can you get it for me? This is just a tiny bit urgent.’

  UNACO did not have a Deputy Director. All major decisions were taken by the Director; in his absence, decisions waited.

  ‘I don’t see what I can do, Mike,’ Whitlock said. ‘Anything over five thou has to be given the all-clear by Philpott.’

  ‘Try to get him, then.’

  ‘I can’t just —’

  ‘C.W., this is my chance to get my hands round the neck of Paul Seaton. Think about it. Call Philpott.’

  Whitlock was silent for a moment. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  Mike went back to the planning table. ‘Just in case Uncle says no,’ he said, ‘can we bolt a decent alternative together?’

  All the alternatives were hazardous and carried such a high possibility of disaster that they could scarcely be considered alternatives at all. Any way they angled it, they would be outnumbered and easily outflanked.

  ‘There’s still a probable gain in being outnumbered if the guys doing the outnumbering are everyday mercenaries,’ Mike said. ‘But I’m not going to be stupid enough to let a horde of hill bandits with a psychopath at their head outnumber me.’

  ‘Then you might lose Seaton,’ Lenny pointed out.

  ‘Don’t rub it in. Think of something else.’

  The phone rang. It was Whitlock. ‘Go ahead,’ he told Mike.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘No, I’m making it up because I secretly want to see you foul up and get blown out of the service.’

  ‘How come the old man agreed?’

  ‘He’s like me,’ Whitlock said. ‘He has other priorities right now. Be grateful for that. The confirmation will be faxed to you within the hour.’

  Mike put down the phone and turned to the others. ‘We’re in business,’ he said, and couldn’t resist rubbing his hands together.

  By late afternoon Amrit was beginning to understand how tough a man had to be in order to walk all over Kashmir wearing nothing on his feet but flimsy sandals. He was once or twice tempted to stop at a market and buy himself sports socks and a good pair of trainers. But he resisted. An impoverished mule, after all, would be used to going everywhere in sandals or bare feet, and when it came to spending any of his sudden fortune, he certainly wouldn’t lay it out on flippant non-essentials like decent footwear.

  At a town called Muraka, Amrit decided he could stop and eat his evening meal. He thought of the food at his favourite Srinagar restaurant: plump grilled chicken, properly steamed vegetables and fluffy rice, washed down with a German beer. In Muraka he would have to settle for a good deal less, so he was grateful to be hungry enough, right then, to eat just about anything.

  He found a dingy little café called The John Boy. All over India, there were these bars and hostelries named after characters from long-defunct American TV series. The bar two doors away from The John Boy was called Starsky’s Hutch.

  At the counter he ordered an omelette and strong tea. He sat down at a table near the door and put the sack at his feet. He knew he mustn’t fall asleep, but in spite of himself he began to drowse.

  He woke with a jump when he felt the sack move. A youth had sat down opposite. He was staring at Amrit, openly hostile, waiting to be asked why he was steadily kicking the sack.

  Amrit sat up in his chair, seeing another youth just beyond his left shoulder. He leaned forward and put his arms on the table. He said nothing.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ the youth opposite said.

  ‘Nothing that concerns you.’

  ‘I’ll ask you again.’ The foot stopped kicking the sack and kicked Amrit’s foot instead. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Same answer.’

  ‘I’ll have a look for myself, then.’

  The youth put his head down to duck under the table. Amrit bunched his toes, brought up his foot and kicked him in the mouth. The youth roared and jerked back, banging his head on the metal table.

  Amrit grabbed the pepper pot and was on his feet before the other one had a chance to react. He spun off the cap and threw a wad of pepper in the youth’s eyes. The youth screamed and dropped to the floor, clutching his face.

  As the first one came up from under the table Amrit saw he had the sack in his hand. He ran for the door and by the time Amrit got there he had vanished.

  Amrit leaned on the wall, thinking. He quashed an impulse to run around unfamiliar streets while his quarry simply disappeared.

  He pushed himself away from the wall, went back into the café and grabbed the youth on the floor. He hoisted him to his feet by the hair, picked up a water carafe and threw the contents in his eyes.

  ‘There. Medicine. Now you’re all better. Tell me where your friend is or this time I’ll really blind you. And that’ll be for starters.’

  The youth was hyperventilating, overwhelmed by pain, shock and fright. Amrit slapped him hard on both cheeks. When the youth tried to retaliate, Amrit tightened his grip on his hair, gathering it into his fingers, putting agonizing stress on the roots. The youth screamed once, loud and sharp.

  ‘One more time before I do you terrible harm. Where is your friend?’

  The youth jerked his thumb at the door. They walked four metres along the pavement outside, then he stopped and pointed to a stairway.

  Amrit frowned at him. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I swear it…’

  Amrit let go his grip on the youth. He climbed the stairs two at a time, silently, tensed for trouble.

  On the first landing he found the sack. He picked it up and looked inside. Nothing had been taken. He heard a sound and looked in the corner. The youth he had kicked was lying in a heap. Amrit turned him over. His face was torn and bloody.

  ‘What did you do to yourself, you idiot?’

  The youth whimpered and slid to the floor again when Amrit released him.

  ‘He did nothing to himself,’ a voice said. ‘I did it.’ A man stepped forward. He was short and stocky. He held up a baseball bat with blood on the thick end. ‘They are thieves. They stole from you, yes?’

  Amrit nodded.

  ‘For weeks now they have used this place as a getaway, you understand? They rob down on the street, then run here to hide until the commotion is over. Well not any longer. This is where I live. I do not want this.’

  Amrit nodded again. He took his sack and went back downstairs. He told the youth waiting at the bottom that he’d better clear off, or he would be in line for more pain before the day was over.

  Walking back to the café, Amrit wondered at the tiny shifts of circumstance that could make such gigantic changes in a life. If he had been an ordinary mule, the loss of the sack would have been a disaster. He would have been doomed.

  If he had been an ordinary mule and the stocky little man had intervened, as he just did, could that man have imagined how with one blow of a stick, he had saved another human being from sudden and painful death — or a whole family from brutal murder?

  ‘Forget the omelette,’ Amrit told the man in the café. ‘I’ll just have the tea.’

  18

  Sabrina left the cabin before dawn, driving a super-tuned green Range-Rover supplied by Commissioner Mantur. He had put the vehicle at the disposal of Lenny Trent with the added promise of a driver and limited additional manpower should the need arise.

  ‘A small act of thanks,’ he told Lenny. ‘It is not often we are done the honour of being paid in dollars for an
assignment.’

  The plan was that, by mid-afternoon, Sabrina should be back in the region where she photographed the bandits. She would conceal the Land-Rover in dense hill forest a kilometre west of the spot where she hid to take her shots, and she would keep Mike and Lenny informed of the situation in the region right up to the time they were due to fly south.

  ‘Any snags,’ Mike reminded her before she left, ‘any sign at all that our arrival could be monitored, let us know and we’ll abort.’

  With decent maps and a solid all-terrain vehicle to drive, Sabrina made good time. She took a direct route to the northern perimeter of the village where Aziz lived, then drove the Range-Rover up into the foothills. She kept to the rough, following ravines and rock fissures until she reached the twisting mountain road used by Seaton and his bandits.

  Staying on the rocky terrain below the road, she travelled north until she came to the forest. It was high and dense, the foliage so thick that only a dim green light penetrated. It looked, Sabrina thought, like a damp, faintly steamy film set with over-done mood lighting.

  She drove into the forest for a distance of twenty metres and parked the Range-Rover in a thicket of smaller trees. She switched off the engine, undid her lap strap and opened the door. She stood to get out and her leg gave way. She fell through the open door and landed on her back among dead leaves and debris.

  For a moment she did not move, a habit of the job, checking all was well before she risked getting up. As she lay there she felt the throb in the back of her leg. The wound was not responding to treatment, and now it was infected enough to interfere with the interaction of nerve and muscle. She knew she should have seen a doctor by now, but what with one thing and another …

  She sat up and pressed the dressing through the thickness of her camouflage trousers. The moment she removed the pressure of her fingers there was a rebound throb. Not a good sign. Toxins from the infected site would be entering her bloodstream.

  Carefully she stood up and leaned on the side of the vehicle. The agitation caused by the fall was definitely affecting her chemistry. Her hands shook and she felt a sensation of clamminess on her skin that had nothing to do with the atmosphere in the forest.