The visitor waited for an acknowledgement and when it wasn’t forthcoming, he nodded approval.
‘Yep, you’re right to be wary, a couple of folks with a valuable commodity on their hands. Guess I’d be much the same if I’d just found that painting.’
‘What makes you think we found a painting?’ Sarah asked innocently.
The smile was replaced by a self-effacing grin. ‘Well, that might be on account of the local police commander pointing you out. Now don’t tell me she would be mistaken? Not after I’ve gone to the trouble of confirming it at the hotel over yonder. That’s the hotel where you sent your pitch on the internet from, right?’ He pulled a card from his pocket. ‘Bob Sumner, I represent the Vanderbilt Corporation.’ Sumner saw she was impressed and the grin broadened. Now Jamie understood the level of cooperation from the police. Vanderbilt was one of the world’s most powerful business corporations: a ruthless global giant that dominated a dozen industries. The kind his heart told him shouldn’t be allowed to exist, but that his head said always would. He read the card. It confirmed that Bob Sumner was the Vanderbilt Media Division’s deputy director of European operations.
‘Might I sit with you?’ the big man requested. ‘I have what I hope you’ll find an interesting proposition.’
Jamie moved to make room at the small table and Sumner slid comfortably into one of the vacant metal seats. Sarah found herself the focus of disconcerting blue eyes.
‘I’ll get right down to business, if you folks don’t mind. Because in an hour the entire European press pack is going to come driving down that road like ol’ Guderian’s panzers and they’ll be just as hard to stop. You’ll notice I’m not hiding the fact that I face opposition for your signature. I’ll also talk to you as a partnership, because as you’ll see, although Miss Grant has offered us a feature story, we envisage substantially more potential. Like I say, you have a commodity which we at Vanderbilt recognize is of substantial value. We respect your right to get the best possible price for it. I flatter myself that the fact the company has sent me is some kind of indication of that and I hope to convince you that Vanderbilt Corporation can deliver the best commercial environment to exploit your story and bring it to a worldwide audience.’
‘I take it that means you’ll put it in your newspaper and pay me for it?’
Sumner motioned to the waiter hovering by the doorway. ‘Can I get you folks anything?’ They shook their heads. ‘Kaffee, bitte.’
The American studied Sarah and shook his head. ‘No, ma’am, not exactly. Vanderbilt Media has one hundred and fifty media outlets worldwide. We would franchise your story, in series form, across all those titles. In addition, we would commission you to write, or cooperate with a ghost writer, on a book bringing together all aspects of the story and the history of the painting.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘Like The Da Vinci Code, but true, profits to be split fifty-fifty.’ Sarah’s eyes widened imperceptibly and Jamie could tell that Bob Sumner’s hard sell was cutting through her armour like a welding torch. ‘Vanderbilt Media also owns or part owns twenty-five satellite and terrestrial television stations. It would be our intention to commission a film documentary tracing your search for the painting from day one. The film would have a substantial budget and be backed by all the resources of Vanderbilt Corporation. We would leave no stone unturned in the search to track the painting’s journey across Europe. We’re also intrigued by this mysterious Nazi bunker you found. I personally would be interested to know how you knew where to look?’ The grin didn’t falter, but just for a millisecond Jamie saw ice chips where there had been none earlier.
‘Maybe when the first cheque arrives, Bob, old boy.’ He emphasized the lazy Cambridge drawl for all he was worth, earning a puzzled glance from Sarah. ‘In the meantime, I don’t think we’ve seen the colour of your money?’
‘Vanderbilt Media has authorized me to offer you two hundred and fifty thousand English pounds for your cooperation in putting this package together, the split to be decided amicably between yourselves.’
Sarah let out a little ‘wow’ at the figure, which was ten times what she’d been offered by anyone else. Jamie only just managed to maintain his poker face. ‘I suppose that’s an acceptable starting point for negotiations,’ he said carefully.
‘There’s also the question of the world tour.’
‘The world tour?’
The big man nodded solemnly. ‘Dependent on the Czartoryski Museum accepting our offer to sponsor the display of Portrait of a Young Man in fourteen major cities across the globe, beginning in Cracow. You would commit to providing insight and publicity on the tour over a four-month period for a stipend to be negotiated.’ He reached into his leather bag. ‘I have contract details he—’
‘No.’ Sarah’s interruption froze the smile on Bob Sumner’s face. ‘The rest of the package sounds attractive, but we won’t be able to commit to any tour. We have further investigations to carry out into the man responsible for bringing the Raphael here.’
Jamie wondered if she was being hasty. The thought of spending four months jetting around the world at the Vanderbilt Corporation’s expense, captivating the unenlightened with his wit and wisdom on the subject of the Raphael, had its attractions. He felt an idea forming, just the faintest hint of a possibility. ‘Maybe there is a way . . .’ The fathomless blue eyes fixed him. ‘We’ll sign up for the full package, on one condition . . .’
‘Mr Saintclair, the Vanderbilt Corporation will be paying you a substantial amount of money—’
‘The Raphael story doesn’t begin in Europe, it begins in Asia. The condition is that we will provide you with a location and will form part of the documentary team sent to film there.’
It was an outrageous demand and they both knew it, but Bob Sumner didn’t even blink. ‘I’d have to clear it with my bosses, but I’m not against it in principle. Of course, I’d need to know the exact location we’re talking about.’
Jamie held his stare.
‘Tibet.’
XLIII
BOB SUMNER SAW sarah watching him from across the square as he dialled his boss to discuss the new terms. He smiled and waved as he spoke.
‘Our German friend has a photocopy of the journal through his sources in the local police department. Apparently Saintclair became careless after discovering the bunker. I’m signing them up as you advised, but we have a problem.’ He described Jamie’s ultimatum and was surprised by the rich laughter at the other end of the line.
‘Make sure your man hands over the photocopies and get them to me right away. It’s perfect. We need to get Saintclair off the scene and out of Frederick’s reach until we evaluate what we have. I couldn’t have planned it better. If there’s anything in the diary Saintclair can help us with, we’ll bring him back. If not . . . well, that’s too bad.’
Sumner discussed the details for a few minutes before returning to the table. He spread his hands. ‘Sounds crazy to me, but my boss, he loves it and the riskier the better. Following in the footsteps of Nazi treasure hunters. Battling against the elements, the terrain and the might of the Communist Chinese in a search to uncover the secret behind the Raphael bunker. We’ll have cameras on you all the way and record every drop of sweat and squeal of terror. I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Mr Saintclair.’
A week later as he sat in the co-pilot’s seat of the Bell Long Ranger which normally inspected Vanderbilt Corporation pipelines, Jamie had cause to remember the executive’s words.
‘We’ll get you as close to the border as we can, maybe twenty miles.’ The pilot’s distorted metallic voice rang in his earphones above the clatter of the helicopter’s engine and the rhythmic thump of the rotor blades.
‘Why can’t you take us all the way?’
‘Because any closer and we’d be flying in a restricted zone and if one of the good old People’s Republic fighter jets didn’t shoot us down, one of friendly India’s attack helicopters would. It’s that kind of plac
e.’
‘Thanks.’
The chopper pilot, a prematurely grey-haired young Texan, grinned behind his sunglasses. Sarah leaned forward from the rear seats and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘What happens when we get there?’ she asked.
‘I flew the camera team in to Joshimath two days ago. They’re in touch with a group of Tibetan dissidents. You’ll be going in over an old smugglers’ route across the Mana Pass, then up towards Ngari, way up there.’ He pointed ahead, where a wall of white dominated the horizon.
Sarah looked out of the helicopter window at the hostile terrain a couple of thousand feet below and felt a shiver run through her. They were still fifty miles short of the Tibetan border and the mountains soared to either side, craggy green-flanked slabs which fell away sheer to rock-strewn river valleys that twinkled deceptively. The snow-capped peaks to their front must be three times as high.
‘This isn’t going to be a picnic, then?’
‘Ma’am,’ the pilot said seriously, ‘I hope somebody explained to you that you are going into the most inhospitable place on the planet. You can die of thirst in the Sahara or freeze to death in the Arctic, up here you’ll get the chance to do both while little slanty-eyed men with automatic weapons shoot at you. The Chinese have been here since nineteen fifty and they have the place sewn up real tight. The only way to enter Tibet legally is through Lhasa. You need a permit to do that and your movements are carefully controlled while you’re there. So to get wherever you’re going to make this here film, you need to go in illegally, which means on your hind legs. There are no physical barriers, because both sides rely on the terrain, but you’ll have to sneak past army garrisons who like nothing better than hunting human meat and harmless-looking shepherd boys who’ll turn you in for less than a dollar a head. The air is so thin even the birds have to walk and the only thing to drink is yak butter tea that tastes like sediment from the Hudson River. Now, you look in pretty good shape, I see you’ve got the best of equipment and they’d fire me for saying this, but you and your young fella would be advised to tell that documentary director to go to hell and Vanderbilt to stick their money up their ass and head right on back to Meerut. We could be having a beer on the deck by sunset?’
Jamie turned to Sarah. ‘Maybe he’s right. You stay with the helicopter and I’ll go?’
She gave him the kind of stare she usually reserved for overly persistent door-to-door salesmen. ‘No thank you.’
The pilot laughed. ‘Thought not. You don’t look like a quitter. Here we go.’ He twisted the helicopter down towards an insignificant settlement in the valley away to their right. ‘Thank you for flying Pelican Airways and have a nice day, y’all.’
XLIV
‘WHY ARE YOU wearing that crazy scarf?’
‘Because I thought it might be cold, and I was bloody right!’
Sarah studied the lurid purple and white striped monstrosity with distaste. ‘You might as well paint an archery target on your chest and wave a placard that says: I’m here.’
‘It’s my college scarf, and I’m rather proud of it.’
‘Well, be proud of it somewhere else, Don Quixote. I’d prefer not to get hit when they’re shooting at you. Ganesh thinks you must have altitude sickness.’
Jamie looked at their interpreter, who grinned uncertainly. He tucked the long scarf into his Gore-tex jacket and down into his trousers and the other man nodded vigorously before walking back to check on the few porters the film crew had persuaded to make the trek into occupied Tibet. Jamie had quickly formed an enormous respect for the wiry mountain men. Without them, he knew the expedition wouldn’t have lasted twenty-four hours. They were small men, but their slight frames were packed with incredible strength and endurance, and each of them carried a load that weighed as much as the porter himself.
For the first two days they had trekked through an almost alpine landscape of conical hills cloaked with oak, birch and rhododendron, twisting valleys that carried foaming, swift-flowing streams and across broad, flower-carpeted meadows. Rare red pandas, brown bears and even snow leopard roamed these Himalayan foothills, but the only thing they glimpsed was a small troop of squalid-looking monkeys which sat in a tree beside the road and threw rotting fruit at them as they passed. Jamie hoped it wasn’t an omen. Narrow, precipitous paths zigzagged up mountainsides making the steep inclines bearable and allowing them to acclimatize for the tougher terrain ahead.
It was only on the third day, as they climbed higher and their guide told them they had crossed the border into Tibet, that Sarah began to feel her lungs fighting to extract oxygen from the air. How could she have taken breathing for granted? What she normally breathed in London had the consistency of chicken soup compared to this. Altitude sickness was a real danger and Jamie insisted they take their Diamox tablets every day, but that still didn’t do anything for the splitting headache that had started on the second morning and never left her. Now, they were in the Himalayas proper, two miles and more above sea level, between the tree line and the snow line. The sharp-set, scenic grandeur with its ethereal light and fantastic colours overwhelmed and awed them, but Jamie found the terrain, a rock-strewn moonscape enlivened only by occasional strips of faded, wind-worn prayer flags, eroded his resilience with every step and the long climbs stretched him to the brink of endurance. Flimsy, double-skinned tents provided the only shelter and they slept on wolfish rocks that clawed their way through bedroll, sleeping bag and spine. Tibetan nights were long and chill; plenty of time for talking and thinking and wondering before exhaustion overcame the body’s hyperactivity. Each day was a never-ending Calvary of steep, scree-scattered scarps that set their calf muscles on fire and turned their feet into blistered, pain-filled sacs. Jamie marched in a dream, cocooned in his own breathless bubble of discomfort, knowing Sarah was less than twenty feet behind suffering just as much, but without the energy to communicate with her. It was only when the little caravan halted beside a small lake of the most astonishing, opaque, almost toxic blue that they had the chance to speak.
She lay with her back against a rock allowing the sun to warm her face, and he slumped beside her, accepting a bottle of water she retrieved from her rucksack.
He drank deeply before returning it. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he wheezed.
‘Me too.’
‘I’m beginning to regret being quite so clever.’
‘Uhuh,’ she grunted. ‘But it’s a little too late to change your mind, seeing as we’ve signed the contract and all, and unless you happen to have a handy little helicopter in your pocket to get us out of here.’
Gervaise Pearson, the documentary producer and leader of the three-man film team, ambled over to sit down beside them. He was short and plump and looked out of place amongst the hard edges of the mountains, but the appearance was deceptive. Gerry had made his name filming persecuted Kurds in the no-go zone of northern Iran and documenting the massacre of indigenous tribespeople by Muslim extremists in the jungles of Indonesia. He was tougher than he looked.
‘Enjoying our little stroll, are we?’
Jamie smiled through gritted teeth. ‘Every moment, Gerry.’
‘Only I’m wondering what the hell you’re doing here? Not that I’m displeased to have your company.’ He gave Sarah an oily grin that reminded her he’d tried to seduce her on the first night and was still owed.
She waved a slim hand to push the dark hair from her eyes. ‘We’re making a documentary, Gerry,’ she said sweetly, ‘unless that little guy who keeps pointing the camera at me is some kind of pervert.’
‘I’m aware of that, dear heart. But old Gerry likes to be in the know and old Gerry thinks we are going to a hell of a lot of trouble to film what is only going to be a tiny part of it. This documentary is principally about your friend Walter Brohm and the Raphael, the mysterious Tibetan crater will only get two minutes at the start, with a voiceover that could just as easily have gone with a stock picture of the SS and a panning shot across
Everest.’
The film-maker produced a schedule, a map and a satellite image from his pack. He opened the map.
‘Instead, we are here.’ He pointed to a spot just inside the Tibetan border. ‘Or so the guide tells me. Personally I haven’t a bloody clue. Our destination is here. Another two days’ march away.’ He placed the satellite image on the map. ‘The crater that Brohm and his SS Ahnenerbe chums explored in nineteen thirty-seven and which our lords and masters are so interested in. When we get there we give the crater the once-over, film you and your piece of tottie with anything of particular interest and then you do your “Once more into the breach” piece to camera. As I say, a great deal of effort for little return in a place that gives me the willies. My bosses were most insistent that we filmed in the crater, and I gather the reason they were most insistent is that Vanderbilt Media whistled, and when Vanderbilt whistles my lords and masters roll over and beg. Not that I’m complaining, I’m getting a rather large fee and enough danger money to make a couple of nights cuddling the bedbugs in a Chinese jail just about bearable. I only thought that, perhaps, you had a little more information on the whys and wherefores that would put my troubled mind to rest?’
Jamie gave him his most reassuring grin. ‘’Fraid, we can’t help you there, Gerry. The only thing they told us was that this would be like taking a stroll down Piccadilly with you in charge, and I must say they’ve been spot on so far.’
Back in London, Simon studied Jamie’s tropical fish with the care of a surgeon about to make his first cut, a cardboard cylinder held steady in his hand above the tank. For the second or third time in a week he wished to God he’d never agreed to feed the bloody things. How much? That was the question. Too much and he’d kill them. Too little and they might starve to death before Jamie came back. A knock on the door saved him from having to make a decision..
The Doomsday Testament Page 24
