Borrowed Time u-11

by Hugh Miller

  ‘Who are the main customers?’

  ‘Moneyed intermediaries and end-users in South China and Thailand.’

  Even the exhaustive data supplied by Dr Arberry hadn’t mentioned a new kind of trade, or what was being peddled. ‘I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about this, Commissioner.’

  ‘I have notes, I will give them to you. But briefly, the drug couriers, or mules as they’re called, are recruited from peasant areas. They work one time only, and they are paid very highly for their single trip. The drawback is that if they are caught, they must poison themselves. They are supplied with capsules of potassium cyanide for the purpose. If they do not kill themselves, or if they try in any way to renege on the deal, their families will be tortured and killed.’

  ‘Do you have much intelligence on the line of supply?’

  ‘Information is thin, because no one will talk. They would sooner rot in one of our stinking jails than say anything.’

  Mantur took three slim school exercise books from the desk drawer and put them on top of the maps. ‘My notes on the new trade. There is much speculation in there, Mr Trent. For the present, it can’t be any other way.’ Mantur spread his hands and shrugged. ‘Manpower.’

  ‘Do you happen to know anything about a bandit leader alleged to be active in Kashmir, an American, name of Paul Seaton?’

  Mantur rolled his eyes. ‘I have heard of him, yes. He has a number of names, but I must say Paul Seaton is one that is used more than most. Again, Mr Trent, it’s speculation. Lots of people have heard lots of things, others know people who know people, who have seen this and that. Personally, I happen to believe there is never this amount of smoke without there being a fire somewhere. And I suspect Mr Seaton may be an active element of the new trade through the Vale.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘He moves around a good deal, or so the story goes, and his brand of savagery, what we know of it, seems to fit the general characteristics of the new trade operators.’

  Lenny looked at the maps and the notes. Information wasn’t going to be in short supply, he thought. But organizing it would be hard.

  ‘You said you hoped we would be interested in this particular area of drug traffic, Commissioner. Is that because it’s likely to cause dangerous instability right at the heart of the state?’

  ‘Certainly, but foremost in my mind is the certainty — the uninformed certainty — that for once, there may be a chance of finding the manufacturers. For once, we can look at the possibility of wiping out a line of trade all the way, with nothing left over to grow again.’

  ‘What makes you so certain?’

  ‘A small thing,’ Mantur said. ‘We have confiscated drugs from maybe ten, eleven peddlers on this new route. All of those peddlers, I may say, are dead.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Exactly. They died in accordance with their terms of employment. But it was their merchandise that made me sure the stuff is manufactured not far from the western territory of the Vale. It was so fresh-looking, Mr Trent. The packaging, the wrappers and bags and phials and capsules — they simply had not travelled very far when we intercepted them.’

  The possibility of drugs actually being manufactured in the Vale of Kashmir put a new light on the project. Lenny looked at the Commissioner. ‘Neat observation,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I thought so.’ Mantur smiled broadly. ‘I would stake my chequered reputation that we made those busts — that’s the phrase, yes? — very close to home base.’

  * * *

  Daylight burglary was a very unnatural activity, C.W. Whitlock decided. The whole business of theft from property, all the way from breaking and entering to going through drawers and cupboards and then sneaking out again, was an activity that screamed for the cover of darkness.

  Adequate forward planning was something else he should have considered: maintenance plans of the twenty-sixth floor of the UN Secretariat building were comprehensive when it came to showing where everything was, but they didn’t reveal — to take the case in point — that the air shaft above the office of the Secretary of Policy Control narrowed to a width of forty-five centimetres at the grille opening.

  Whitlock lay with his arms doubled under him, his elbows pressing on the sides of the shaft. He was pretty sure the office below him was empty, because Secretary Crane was a creature of habit, and he always went to lunch at 12:30. It was now 12:38. Nevertheless, having come this far, and at the expense of so much trouble and discomfort, Whitlock wasn’t going to take any unnecessary chances.

  He eased his hands forward and seized the grille by its two handles. He pushed gently and felt the resistance go as the grille detached smoothly. He turned it sideways, pulled it into the shaft and used his knees to inch himself forward far enough to look down into the room.

  A second before he poked his head through the opening he heard Crane’s voice and jerked back into the shaft.

  Crane was down there! He was in the office using the telephone!

  ‘Issues in that category are always the province of the Director,’ Crane said, his voice sounding curiously close in the metal confines of the air duct. ‘I’ll be happy to pass your concerns along to him on your behalf, but that won’t be possible until he gets back from lunch. As a matter of fact it won’t be possible until I get back from lunch, and the longer we keep this conversation going, the later that will be.’ A pause. ‘Not at all. Goodbye.’

  Whitlock lay there, listening. Crane had made one break with custom so he could make another. The office door opened, then closed. The key turned. At no point had there been the soft beep of the movement-detector being switched on. Crane probably considered himself thorough but not obsessive: who was going to break into his office in broad daylight?

  Whitlock turned over on his back and slowly, painfully inched his arms up on to his chest. Reaching downward with the fingertips of both hands he pulled the coiled nylon ladder from the top of his overalls and let it uncoil out through the end of the duct and dangle down into the office.

  Holding the end of the ladder with one hand, he eased out a telescopic brace from his breast pocket and pushed it through the looped end of the ladder. He then placed the brace lengthways at the edge of the duct opening and squeezed the spring release on the brace. It sprang out at both ends, its rubber stops clamping to the sides of the duct.

  To get down the ladder he had to slide back along the air duct the way he had come, until he reached a four-way junction. He turned around and inched himself back to the opening, feet first.

  He had never before used a ladder made entirely from nylon. His feet skidded uncontrollably on the first two rungs and he had to freeze all movement and wait for the ladder to stop swinging before he eased himself down any further. He began taking the rungs slowly, letting his weight settle on the centre of each one, waiting until the ladder was stable before going down another rung.

  When he was finally on the floor he stood by the desk and let his gaze travel around the fastidious tidiness of the place. He could not even be sure the snapshot of Philpott was here. But it was likely to be.

  He began with the filing cabinet, a six-drawer unit with a single lock at the top. A U-shaped piece of piano wire had the lock open in three seconds. In six minutes he went through every file in the cabinet. He found no snapshots, but he did come across a folder marked UNACO Hearing — Notes Towards Structured Argument.

  He laid the folder on the desk, took out his Minox 16mm camera and photographed the four pages in the file, using the desk lamp for illumination. He put back the folder and locked the filing cabinet.

  The desk drawers were locked but they were as easy to open as the cabinet. Whitlock found a whole range of unused desk equipment — stapler, paperclips, tape dispenser, paperknife — all in their original packets. There was also a book of personal telephone numbers, a dictation machine, tapes, personalized notepaper and envelopes, a loaded Mauser 7.65mm pistol, a Nikon F501 camera, handsome Pentax bino
culars and a plastic wallet marked EVIDENTIAL. It contained ticket stubs, bills of sale and expense sheets relevant to departmental investigations; among the papers at the back of the folder was the photograph of Philpott.

  Whitlock put it face down under the desk lamp and centred the pencilled writing carefully in his Minox viewfinder. A moment before he took the picture he detected a bell ringing in some shadowy corner of his memory. He took a second shot, closer this time, then put away the camera and returned the picture to the wallet.

  He put everything back where it had been and looked round the room to make sure nothing was out of place. Satisfied, he turned and heard the bell ring again, a tiny irritation, nothing he could pinpoint or even narrow down.

  ‘Time to get back up the ladder,’ he whispered.

  As he stepped on the first rung and began to sway, the words on the back of the picture came back to him. He could see them, the smudged curves, the way the letters looped and slanted.

  It occurred to him suddenly why the bell had rung. He had seen that handwriting before. He didn’t know where, but he had definitely seen it.

  11

  ‘This temple,’ Deena said, ‘is dedicated to the worship of Ganesh.’

  Sabrina smiled in the gloom. The faint light that seeped into the room through a high slit in the wall was growing now. For long hours they had been in darkness and for a while Deena had slept. Their preparations were made and now they simply waited. There was nothing else to do. Sabrina could scarcely see Deena’s face, but she knew from the way the girl talked, from her nervousness and her growing animation, that the effects of the marijuana leaves had all but worn off.

  ‘How can you tell, Deena?’

  ‘From the symbols and pictures painted on the walls. Also from the images on the coloured window at the far end.’

  ‘You remembered all that, even though you were so frightened?’

  ‘It is long afterwards that I remember things.’

  ‘And who is Ganesh?’

  ‘The child of Siva and his consort Parvati, the beautiful. Ganesh is the god of prosperity and wisdom. He has an elephant’s head.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘The story is that one day, coming back from a long journey, Siva saw Parvati in her private quarters with a young man. Siva forgot that in his absence, his son would have grown. So he mistook Ganesh for Parvati’s lover and cut off his head. Parvati was furious, she made Siva understand what he had done and demanded that he bring their son back to life. Siva could only do so by giving Ganesh the head of the first living thing he saw, which happened to be an elephant.’

  At another time Sabrina would have been enchanted. Now she was too alert to sounds beyond the room, too focused on the need to be ready. Two hours earlier she had nearly fallen asleep. When she caught herself nodding she stood up, marched up and down for ten minutes to re-oxygenate her blood, then sat down and began declining Latin verbs in her head. It was tough work, but it kept her awake.

  ‘Our companions will be dead by now,’ Deena said. Her voice trembled. Her fear was gaining control.

  ‘You mustn’t think about that. You have to concentrate on one thought: there is a world of freedom outside. It is only the thickness of a wall away. Think of a straight line between you and the outside world. Think of nothing being able to stop you travelling along that line.’

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘When the time comes, do what I told you,’ Sabrina said. ‘Do what we’ve gone over and over. I’ll lead the way, all you have to do is follow, and have faith.’

  Deena nodded and took a deep shaky breath. ‘I am very afraid. I can’t help that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Afraid is better than too confident.’ Sabrina squeezed Deena’s arm. ‘Afraid is cautious and alert.’

  Throughout the night there had been sounds in the temple, distant creaks and clicks, the sounds of shrinkage in wood, cooling in glass and in stone. Now there was a different sound, harder, louder. It grew and there was a sudden bump from the direction of the temple door.

  ‘They’re back,’ Sabrina whispered.

  Deena let out a whimper and clamped her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Act drowsy, as if you’ve chewed up all the bhang.’

  The sounds of boots on the tiled floor shuffled and bumped at random. The men muttered and once or twice they laughed. The two women sat side by side on a blanket, scarcely breathing. Their heads were bowed, making them look obsequious and small, the very opposite of a threat.

  ‘They are coming,’ Deena whispered.

  ‘Sit tight. Just be ready. Your wits’ll do the rest.’

  Feet approached along the passage outside and a key clattered in the lock. The door swung open, letting in bright morning light. Sabrina kept her head down on her chest. Deena did the same. From under lowered eyelids Sabrina saw two pairs of boots, standing two metres away. A moment later tin plates were placed on the floor, each with a pile of yellow rice and chopped vegetables. Another dish of marijuana leaves was put beside them.

  One of the men clapped his hands. Sabrina pretended to wake up. Her hand slid under the blanket.

  The man leaned down and pushed the plate towards her. Sabrina’s hand swung out from under the blanket clutching a chair leg. It went up at speed, hitting the man on the jaw, and came down faster, cracking him behind the ear.

  As he fell Sabrina sprang to her feet. The second man drew a knife and lunged at her. Deena threw herself at him and wrapped her arms round his legs. He toppled and Sabrina swiped him savagely across the throat with the chair leg, cutting off his voice before he could shout.

  Deena rolled away as the man landed on his back. She jumped to her feet. Sabrina stooped over him. She pocketed his knife as she put her index and middle finger on the side of his neck.

  ‘What is it?’ Deena was wide-eyed, shaking violently. ‘What is it?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘But he can’t be!’

  ‘It’s called vagal inhibition. It takes too long to explain.’

  Sabrina took the pistol from the waist of the dead man’s trousers and shoved it in the baggy pocket of her jacket.

  ‘See if the other one has a gun, Deena. Hurry!’

  Deena dropped to her knees and searched the man. ‘Nothing. No gun, no knife.’

  ‘Come on.’ Sabrina pulled the door wide and saw Deena was staring at the dead man. ‘It’s them or us, Deena! Now come on! Hurry!’

  They ran along the passage on their toes, making no sound, Sabrina clutching the chair leg, straining her ears, trying to pick up sounds as they approached the door to the temple.

  There was a small oval window in the door. Sabrina peered through it. The temple looked empty. She squinted the other way. The main door was half open. Beyond it she saw golden loamy earth and trees. She took the gun from her pocket and elbowed open the door.

  ‘Stick close, Deena.’

  They slid into the temple. Five metres in, Sabrina put a finger to her lips and paused. She looked all around her. The place was silent and empty. She pointed at the main door. They made their way steadily towards it, keeping to the wall, Deena panting softly.

  Three metres from the door Sabrina saw a rifle leaning against a pillar. She ran across the tiles to get it. Halfway there she froze at a sound behind her. She spun and saw Hafi in the open doorway of an anteroom. He had his arm around Deena’s waist. His other hand held a long pointed knife at her throat.

  ‘Put down the gun and I will not kill her.’

  Sabrina knew that was nonsense. He would cut Deena’s throat whether she put down the gun or not. To avoid a catastrophe Sabrina needed time, a few seconds at least.

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘all right, I’m putting the gun down. Don’t harm her. I’m putting it down.’

  Sabrina crouched slowly, her arm outstretched as she put the gun on the floor. As it touched the tiles she watched Hafi’s eyes. She stood up again, still watching him, waiting for the movement in his eyes,
the split-second signal.

  It came and an instant later the point of the knife moved. Sabrina threw the chair leg. It struck Hafi’s wrist with a crack. He howled and dropped the knife. Deena whirled away from him.

  A bound and a jump put Sabrina on top of Hafi, shoving him backwards, ruining his balance. She kicked his right foot clear of the floor as her weight carried him down. As he hit the floor he twisted sideways, holding on to Sabrina’s arms, putting her under him. She tried to lift herself. Hafi banged her in the mouth with his elbow, stretched out his arm and snatched up his knife from the floor.

  ‘Get off me!’

  Sabrina punched him in the neck. She drew back her fist for a second shot and felt the point of the knife against her cheek. She let her arm drop to the floor.

  Panting hard, his breath hot on Sabrina’s face, Hafi let all his weight settle on her. He shifted the knife from her cheek to the tip of her nose. He inched the pointed end of the blade down the entrance to her nostril. Sabrina tried not to move her head. Her hand slid to her pocket.

  ‘Let me tell you what I will do now, Petrushka,’ Hafi grunted. ‘I will split your nose to the eyebrows, then I will fillet your face. Have you heard of such a thing? Have you?’

  She had. She had seen it, too. Her fingers closed round the handle of the knife in her pocket. She drew it out slowly.

  ‘Please don’t do that to me,’ she said.

  ‘Aw.’ The knife edge touched the margin of her nostril. ‘A big tough Russian girl like you is frightened? Surely not. I would have thought —’

  Hafi stopped talking. He stiffened and jerked back. His eyes went wide. He sucked air with a rasping noise as the knife in Sabrina’s hand sliced upward between his ribs and punctured his heart.

  Sabrina pushed him off her and jumped to her feet. Deena was crouched by the wall, whimpering into her cupped hands. Hafi lay in a frozen, buckled spasm. Blood flowed from his mouth. As brain function disintegrated, his body twitched and jerked, the knife sticking hideously from his chest, his boots and belt making scratching noises that echoed through the temple.