Borrowed Time u-11 Page 6

  ‘Good of you to call.’ Philpott hung up. He picked up the receiver again and tapped in Whitlock’s extension number. ‘Come in, C.W. I need to have a word.’

  Whitlock appeared at once.

  ‘The Arno Skuttnik enquiry,’ Philpott said. ‘Is it a solid one, or are we chasing bubbles?’

  ‘It has promise.’ Whitlock updated Philpott on the photograph, the mysterious woman, the growing mystery of the dead porter’s connection with Adam Korwin, and the question of the handwriting on the picture. ‘It could work against us, of course,’ he added. ‘At this stage who can say?’

  ‘You think, nevertheless, that it could be something of substance, either way?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Then follow it. But now I want you to make it a priority. Lubbock is starting to lean. Or he’s trying to. Sooner or later I’ll have to accede to a techniques-and-procedures review. When I do, I don’t want to go in there on the defensive.’

  Whitlock nodded. ‘If there’s ammunition to be found, I’ll do all I can to find it. But…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fingers crossed I don’t find a booby trap instead.’

  7

  It had been a long and eventful day, but not the kind Mike favoured. He had ended up tired, footsore and dejected, and he had gained nothing. He had come back to base with more questions than answers, and that was not the way things were supposed to work.

  He sat swirling his drink, watching Ram Jarwal read the faxes that had accumulated while they were out.

  ‘It’s depressing to think,’ Mike said, ‘that the death of the man they found down the slope this morning, and the death of Reverend Young, are everyday statistics by now. Just records on paper, with nothing being done about them.’

  ‘Containment is beyond the police now, never mind catching villains,’ Ram said, turning from the fax machine. ‘They tidy up the consequences of crime and administer the paperwork.’

  ‘Reverend Young seemed to think this was still a pretty civilized and well ordered area.’

  ‘He worried that the troubles in the region would soon make it as bad as the rest of Kashmir,’ Ram said. ‘The fact is, in the space of a year things deteriorated a lot more than he realized. The only difference here, right here on the west side of the Vale, is they have community spirit, and that gives them the backbone to maintain something like independence.’

  ‘Independence is hard to lick.’

  ‘Sure,’ Ram said, ‘but criminals and the political agitators are on the case. They’re wearing away the stability, erasing the civilizing factors …’

  ‘Factors like Reverend Young.’ Mike shook his head. ‘Philpott should be out here seeing the situation for himself. This stuff would chivvy him into action. He’s all for pulling out major stops when he thinks civilization is under threat from the barbarians.’

  ‘I’ve heard about Philpott.’ Ram brought the bottle of Jim Beam and topped up Mike’s glass. ‘English, isn’t he? Used to be at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Technically Scottish, I believe. He had several years as a Detective Chief Superintendent and Joint Chief of the Special Branch. That gave him a solid point of view on the subject of government security.’

  ‘An old school disciplinarian?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘He’s nothing you can hang a label on. He’s a champion of democratic government, but he feels democracy hasn’t been correctly defined or formulated. It needs to lean towards benign dictatorship.’

  ‘So he’s kind of right-wing.’

  ‘Kind of,’ Mike said. ‘But like I told you, it’s hard to label him. He’s an individualist. He believes, for example, that a man or woman with a cop’s background is better at gathering results and evaluating them than even the best government man.’

  ‘I thought the training was much the same for police and government law enforcers.’

  ‘Philpott believes people trained in government agencies lack the policeman’s out-on-the-street understanding of criminals. Cops are also better at keeping in mind the requirements of the law, especially in the way evidence has to be gathered and how it’s put before the courts.’

  ‘You think he’s right about that?’

  ‘Essentially, yes. On the other hand, Philpott occasionally uses the kind of undisciplined guerrilla tactics that no cop or G-man would get away with.’

  ‘So he’s a walking set of contradictions.’

  Mike nodded. ‘That’s one label you could pin on him.’

  Ram had gone to the window. He stood there listening.

  ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘You’ll find out in a minute.’ He went back to the fax machine. ‘Philpott’s certainly got interesting impulses.’ He held up a sheet of paper. ‘This is a communiqué from UN Information and Services in New Delhi. It tells me that as a result of a snap decision by Director Philpott of UNACO, followed by rapid interdepartmental negotiations earlier today, we are due to have another visit from the Sikorsky.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Any minute now.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  Ram winked. ‘I’m sure you’d prefer a surprise.’

  Mike stood up and drained his glass. As he put it down Ram held up a finger. ‘I hear it. Let’s get outside and shut the door before the dust covers everything.’

  It was a cold, starry night with a crescent moon almost directly overhead. Mike and Ram stood with their backs against the front wall of the cabin, hugging themselves against the icy breeze as the black helicopter descended, deafening them with its noise, throwing up a whirlwind as first one wheel touched down, then the other.

  The door swung open and a bag was thrown out. Mike peered past his shielding hand to see who had arrived. He saw boots, a flapping black coat and the top of a man’s head bent low as he stepped out and snatched up the bag.

  The helicopter door closed and a second later it was rising again, powering away from them, turning in a wide arc southward. The new arrival walked right up to Mike, who still couldn’t see him for the wind and the dust.

  ‘This is getting monotonous, Michael.’

  Mike blinked a couple of times and saw the grinning face of Lenny Trent.

  ‘Lenny! What the —’

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it? For years I see nothing of you, then we start bumping into each other all over the place.’

  As the dust settled Ram opened the cabin door and beckoned them in. Lenny stood in the living room, flushed, combing his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Somebody tell me what’s happening,’ Mike said.

  ‘Be glad to.’ Lenny took off his coat and dropped it on the back of an easy chair. He removed his steel-framed glasses, wiped them with his scarf, put them on again. ‘Just as soon as there’s a drink working itself into my bloodstream.’

  Ram handed him a jigger glass half full of bourbon.

  ‘You have a fine memory there, old buddy.’

  ‘You two know each other?’ Mike said.

  ‘Ten years,’ Ram said, ‘give or take.’

  ‘I have been known to wander these fragrant slopes,’ Lenny said.

  ‘So why are you here now?’

  ‘Mr Philpott called me in Seattle with a couple of questions about the possible location of drug routes through the Vale of Kashmir. I accommodated him, and I added that you and I had just talked about the same thing. He was intrigued to learn how far back we went, and right there and then, while he was on the line, he did some out-loud thinking.’

  ‘Another idiosyncrasy,’ Mike told Ram.

  ‘In a nutshell,’ Lenny said, ‘he explained that he needed police liaison on this job, and normally he would have sent out C.W. Whitlock as part of the team. But he’s got C.W. on something important in New York, so he wondered if I would consider secondment — without loss of status, of course-to this here mission.’

  ‘Did he give you time to think about it?’ Mike said.

  ‘Oh, sure. He gave me from then until he was ready to h
ang up. I told him I was almost through with the job in Seattle, which would now be handled through the courts by the police and the DA’s office, but I added I would have to clear things with my own immediate superiors.’

  Mike was nodding. ‘He told you not to worry about that, he would fix it.’

  ‘Right. And he did. And here I am. I’ve an appointment the day after tomorrow with the Chief of Police at Srinagar. He’ll give me an overview of developments in local drug shipping, and I’ll swap him a few names he could use, and we should get along just fine.’

  ‘That’s going to be your job here? Police liaison?’

  ‘Among much else, Mike. I don’t like staying too narrow. Linking and co-ordination are the things I do best out here, so that’s what I’ll concentrate on.’ Lenny took a gulp of bourbon. ‘Is there a schedule of events I can fall in with between now and when I visit the police?’

  ‘We’ve a dinner date,’ Ram said, holding up another fax. ‘Dr Arberry. He’s an American who settled here a couple of years ago.’

  ‘He’s doing big things with his public medical centres,’ Mike told Lenny. ‘Right now his foundation is setting up a free hospital for the disadvantaged people of the region. Reverend Young thought highly of him.’

  ‘They told me what happened to Alex Young,’ Lenny said. ‘I met him a time or two. Nice guy.’ He turned to Ram. ‘So why do you think Dr Arberry has sent out a dinner invite?’

  ‘He heard about the arrival of a UN fact-finder,’ Ram said.

  ‘That would do it. If I were in his place I’d want all the UN and Interpol contacts I could make.’

  ‘He wants us to join him tomorrow at eight. I’m sure he’d be happy to have another guest along. What’s your cover, Lenny?’

  ‘Intelligence co-ordinator to the Security Council.’ Lenny smiled. ‘Sounds glossy, huh? The Council approved it, too. What plans do you have for tomorrow daytime?’

  ‘More damned walking, probably,’ Mike said.

  ‘We’ve been on recon,’ Ram explained. ‘Getting Mike au fait with the terain.’

  ‘And the patterns of casual murder,’ Mike added.

  ‘I can show you some probable drug routes, if you like,’ Lenny offered.

  ‘Would Paul Seaton be likely to use any of them?’

  ‘Who can say? Maybe I’ll know more about that when I’ve talked with the police.’

  ‘Paul Seaton?’ Ram said.

  Lenny sighed. ‘It’s a long story. But I’m sure that won’t stop Mike telling it.’

  * * *

  After an overnight stay in the town of Manali, at a boarding house run by a couple from Yorkshire, Sabrina drove directly north, through scrub land and flat farm country, along roads scarcely wider than the car’s wheelbase. Sticking to her brief, she stopped wherever she saw a community and asked directions, all the time evaluating the people and the social divisions. It wasn’t easy to distinguish signs of criminal infiltration and political coercion in territory where all of the people appeared equally poor, but Sabrina had her orders.

  Late in the afternoon she arrived at Palanjal, fifteen kilometres south of the Kashmir border, and there she began to see a difference. Palanjal was a medium-sized town with a population of perhaps twenty thousand. The difference here was that social divisions were visible. Some people were better dressed than others; better nourished, too; and on the sidewalks there appeared to be a rule of precedence, the poorer, shabbier citizens automatically making way for the others.

  Sabrina stopped for petrol at a wayside station. The attendant spoke English, but he was not keen to engage in conversation. Sabrina persevered. She explained that she was doing a survey in the area, estimating the cumulative effects of weather and pollution on the environment.

  ‘I have to report back to my people, that’s the World Health Organization, maybe you’ve heard of them? On the basis of my findings, as well as those of maybe a hundred other ecology monitors, revised cultivation and crop-planting regimes will be devised, and it’s hoped that communities such as this one will see real benefits in the years to come.’

  The man on the pumps nodded, took the money for the petrol and disappeared indoors.

  Ten minutes later, as Sabrina walked through the local market and spoke to people, the same thing kept happening. She was not directly shunned, but people wanted no prolonged contact with her. It could have been a local trait, but she didn’t believe that. Sabrina knew when people were scared of saying too much, or were frightened by the consequences of being seen in certain company. She had experienced identical behaviour in Sicily before the Mafia trials, she had seen it in Guatemala, too, and in Chile and Bosnia.

  She tried to get lodgings for the night in Palanjal, but no one had rooms. There was a hotel, empty-looking, but the clerk said sorry, they had no accommodation available now, or for the foreseeable future.

  ‘Maybe you could recommend some place else?’

  The clerk shook his head. ‘There is nowhere else, I assure you.’

  ‘Then I guess I’ll have to sleep in the car.’

  ‘There is time to move on to another town,’ the clerk said. ‘It is not advisable to stay here without proper accommodation.’

  ‘I see.’

  She left the hotel and got in the car. It was four in the afternoon. She decided to head for the next town, which according to her map was Jullaspur. If she couldn’t get to the bottom of what troubled the people in this town, at least she could make a comparison with the way visitors were treated at the next place.

  As she drove to the end of the main street, following the sign pointing to Jullaspur, a man stepped out in front of the car. Sabrina had to brake hard to keep from hitting him. He stood in the roadway with his hands on his hips, staring at her through the windscreen, his bearded face expressionless.

  Sabrina sat tight, waiting, avoiding conclusions. The man, she noticed, was wearing western clothes: leather trousers, a striped collarless shirt, shiny black leather boots. He also wore a gun and a bandolier of ammunition across his chest.

  Sabrina’s door jerked open. Another man was there. He was clean-shaven and looked more Arab than Indian. He wore one silver earring and had a deep scar from the side of his nose across his cheek to his left ear, from which the lobe was missing.

  ‘Out, please,’ he said.

  ‘Get away from me,’ Sabrina said.

  He took hold of her arm and pulled sharply, jerking her out on to the road. She landed on her back. He put his foot firmly on her stomach and snapped his fingers at the man standing in front of the car. He came and between them they put Sabrina on her feet and frog-marched her across the road to a battered Mitsubishi pickup. Sabrina made a show of squirming resistance, but she was careful to do nothing to show she could handle herself in a situation like this.

  ‘You will lie still in the bottom,’ the cleanshaven one said as they hoisted her into the back of the pickup. ‘This man will sit near you. If you try to escape, he has orders to shoot you in the knees. Do you understand?’

  Sabrina nodded, looking terrified, choking back a whimper. She was dumped without ceremony into the hard metal bottom of the pickup trailer. The hairy-faced man got in beside her. When the engine started she closed her eyes and curled over on her side.

  ‘Listen!’ the man said harshly. ‘You listen and remember!’

  She nodded, her lower lip between her teeth.

  ‘You move and I shoot.’

  No worries, she thought. Escape was the last thing she planned. This might be dangerous, it might be fatal, but it was progress. In her job progress was always the option of choice, wherever it led.

  8

  C.W. Whitlock stood in a small, tidy laboratory two doors away from the TF3 suite in the UN Secretariat building, listening to a recital of complaints from Luther Flint. Luther was head of Scientific Resources, a subdivision of UNACO Clandestine Enterprises. He was also, in the view of many, a borderline clinical paranoid.

  Today he had chosen Whitl
ock as the target for what Philpott called a ‘querimonius diatribe’.

  ‘I don’t know how you people expect us to function, C.W. Time and again — you’d think it was deliberate, a matter of policy — you give us the scantiest, lowest quality material to work with, and expect us to turn in results of shimmering, incandescent excellence. And if the results of our exertions are disappointing, if they’re less than you wanted, you put the word about that we just aren’t up to the job we were hired to do.’

  ‘That just isn’t true —’

  ‘Now you’re calling me a liar.’

  ‘I’m saying you’re mistaken when you say people criticize you or evaluate your work in a negative way.’ Whitlock knew there was no way to placate Luther. The best he could do was get him on a low simmer. ‘Speaking for myself, I’ve nothing but admiration for the job you do. I appreciate that your consistently splendid results are all the more impressive considered alongside the downright cruddy source materials you often have to work with.’

  ‘Well,’ Luther grunted, ‘just so long as you know the conditions imposed on us aren’t ideal. The fact is, they’re not even reasonable.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ Whitlock pointed to the coloured snapshot mounted on a copy easel on the bench beside them. It was the picture he had borrowed from Clancy Spencer. ‘I’m not asking you to do the impossible here, truly I’m not. I just want you to make the best copy and the best blow-up you can, then scan the blow-up into your computer, enhance it, print it out at roughly fifteen hundred dpi and do another blow-up from that.’

  ‘And of course you wouldn’t be trying to tell me how to do my job, would you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All you have to do,’ Luther said, ‘is tell me you want the best quality-enhanced blow-up I can make. No need to tell me the way I should achieve that. I’m a professional, remember. It’s part of my job to know how to do whatever you ask.’