Kingdom

by Tom Martin

  Nancy put out her hands and received the bundle. It didn’t weigh that much. She was expecting it to be heavier – but there was definitely something rolled up inside. Mr Lall continued:

  ‘We can assume that the monk was trying to escape into India over the high passes. Like so many others, he perished in the attempt. We are fairly sure who the original owner was. It was your predecessor at the Tribune: Anton Herzog.’ He paused and then added viciously, ‘But it is addressed to you. Why don’t you open it?’

  Nancy stared at Mr Lall. Judging from his expression, she clearly didn’t have any choice. But what did he mean, it was addressed to her? Nervously, she began to fumble with the ends of the string. She could feel Lall’s penetrating gaze follow her every move. He sneered at her again. ‘You already know what’s inside, Miss Kelly, don’t you?’

  She fumbled with the string, ignoring his accusations. Perhaps they were simply trying to frame her, or hang something on her so they would be able to manipulate her later. The Sikh policeman stepped forward and produced a knife from his pocket. Carefully, he cut the string, letting the ends fall limply to the table.

  Nancy laid the cloth bundle down on the table and then unrolled it. The first thing she saw was a thin strip of plastic, a little larger than a credit card. Nancy recognized it straight away, it was an International Herald Tribune ID card, and there in black and white, alongside a grainy photo, was the name, Anton Herzog.

  She looked up. Mr Lall and his colleague were staring fixedly at her, as if they thought she might give herself away in the slightest gesture. Very carefully, she continued to unroll the cloth bundle. As she did so she felt everyone lean forward, including the Sikh policeman who was still standing behind her. The cloth unravelled and there, to her astonishment, was an animal bone. It was about twenty inches long, she estimated. It must have been a thigh bone. It appeared to be extremely old. It was weathered and pockmarked and brownish in colour and at one end where it mushroomed into the shape of a ball that would have fitted into the socket of a hip, or a knee, it had what she could only describe as a mouthpiece, made of discoloured metal. The mouthpiece was just over an inch long. A simple but perfectly formed glyph was engraved on its side: a dagger emblazoned upon a swastika. She pondered what the glyph might mean. The swastika was a ubiquitous symbol throughout Asia, that much she knew. However, she had no idea what the significance of the dagger in combination with the swastika might be. Perhaps the symbol might belong to an ancient Tibetan Buddhist sect, or a Hindu royal house.

  Beneath the glyph were six strange symbols, clearly letters from some long-dead alphabet. They were too primitive to be Tibetan letters, Nancy thought. Perhaps they were cuneiform or Sumerian? But that made no sense. They had to be from an Asian language – after all the bone was from Tibet.

  The letters were crude in their design. They were made only from straight lines – no curves – as if they were designed to last for all eternity, to be chiselled into solid granite or hammered into gold and never committed to paper.

  The mouthpiece itself reminded Nancy of a pipe, the kind that old men used to smoke when she was growing up. She shook her head in confusion, conscious all the time of the malevolent force of the stares of her interrogators. Not knowing what else to do, she picked the bone up in both hands and examined it more closely. It was a ghoulish object but it radiated a strange energy. Images flashed through Nancy’s mind. She saw molten gold being poured in a cavern somewhere, a volcano erupting, a tower, a desolate plain, a famished child running along on an empty road. The clarity and immediacy of the images shocked her. She blinked hard to dispel them and then very gingerly she placed the bone on the table and turned her attention back to the cloth. As she carefully flattened out the last folds in the tired material her eyes fell on a small playing-card-sized picture of the Dalai Lama. She picked it up. On the back, in a spidery, faint hand, a few words had been written in English:

  ‘To Nancy Kelly. Bone Trumpet. Found by Anton Herzog, Pemako, Tibet, 17th June.’

  Nancy had stopped breathing. Her skin crawled with fear. It was only a conscious act of will that made her inhale again. She was gasping for air; she had to get out of the police station; she had to get away from Delhi, away from the ever-increasing claustrophobia of the Herzog affair. If she did not, she would never see the light of day again. Evil was at work; an evil beyond anything she had ever experienced, but she felt it now, close to her, coming for her.

  The conclusion was inescapable: the bone and the rest of the contents of the cloth bundle must have been addressed to her before she was even offered the job. But this was ludicrous, it couldn’t possibly be the case. She could feel Lall watching her, still waiting for a sign, for some confirmation of her guilt. But Nancy just shook her head in confusion. Twenty-four hours ago she had been waving goodbye to her friends in New York and now she was being held in a police station in Delhi, under the threat of imprisonment, and being asked to explain the significance of an ancient bone.

  ‘Ms Kelly,’ Inspector Lall needled steadily at her. ‘Why has Mr Herzog sent this to you? This is his handwriting; we have checked it. And why would you be interested in an old bone? You are not an antiques collector, Miss Kelly, of that I am quite sure. So you will forgive me for thinking that it has some other value for you, some other meaning?’

  Nancy shook her head in despair – she simply didn’t know what she could say. This must be how interrogators wore people down, she thought; it must be why people cracked, confessed to crimes they had never committed. She felt exhausted and powerless. She had been in unpleasant stand-offs with policemen before – but that was back in America, where she knew her rights, and where, as a journalist for a powerful newspaper, she always knew that ultimately she would be supplied with the best legal representation. But out here in India, embroiled in an espionage investigation, she felt quite sure that she had absolutely no rights and that if things went against her, or if Inspector Lall decided it was necessary, she might not see the light of day again for a very long time.

  Mr Lall pushed his chair back and stood up and began to walk slowly around the room. The second interrogator watched her through heavily lidded eyes. There was a long, horrible pause, while Nancy fidgeted and didn’t know what to do. Then Lall began again, wearily:

  ‘Ms Kelly, is this a message of some kind? Is it a signal? Everyone’s life would be much simpler if you would just cooperate. Perhaps we can even help your friend Mr Herzog. You would like that wouldn’t you? If you tell us how to contact him, or where he is, we will not only rescue him but we will also exempt you from further criminal investigation. How does that sound?’

  Again he studied her. All she could do was bow her head.

  ‘Ms Kelly, I will be honest with you. We think that your colleague is still alive in Tibet. We have good-quality intelligence that says Mr Herzog entered the Pemako valley system more than two months ago and still has not come out, and even as we sit here wasting time, the Chinese will be hunting him down. I can only hope for his sake that they don’t catch him alive. The Geneva conventions don’t apply over the other side of the Himalayas. I am quite sure that Mr Herzog would thank you from the bottom of his heart if he was allowed to face justice in India rather than in China. Now, if you don’t help us, we can’t help him. I will ask you one last time: what is the meaning of this bone trumpet and how do we make contact with Anton Herzog?’

  The pressure was becoming unbearable, but still Nancy’s instincts told her that despite her own fear and despite the perils of her situation, she should try at all costs to maintain a sense of outrage and injustice. It was her only defence. Very slowly, as if she was spelling out the words for a child, she spoke. ‘Look, Inspector Lall, I’m going to make this all very easy for you. I don’t know what the hell any of this means. I have quite literally no idea at all. You’ve got the wrong journalist, and keeping me here all day isn’t going to change that. So I suggest you either charge me right now, with whatever trumped-up mean
ingless charge you want to lay on me, or let me go at once. If you don’t, then when I do get out of here, and you can be damn sure that I will get out of here, I will see that you and your bullying, useless excuse for police work are plastered all over the newspapers of the world for months to come . . .’

  This time her outburst seemed to work. Inspector Lall paused for a minute and then inhaled sharply and with a look of disgust on his face he said, ‘Very well. You are free to go – for now. But bear in mind, I am doing you a favour. I could hold you for one hundred and thirty days under the Terrorism Act. You are bailed indefinitely but you are obliged to remain in Delhi. Is that understood?’

  She nodded without meeting his gaze, but inside she was screaming for joy. She looked across at the lawyer. Judging by his face, he was even more surprised than she was by the turn of events.

  Mr Lall turned to the Sikh policeman. ‘Take her up to the front desk. Give her back her phone and wallet and have the bail forms written out. And give her the bone. It belongs to her office.’

  Not daring to speak, in case Lall changed his mind, Nancy took the filthy rag bundle and allowed the policeman to lead her away.

  Captain Hundalani re-entered the interrogation room, quietly shutting the door behind him. Before he could speak Lall addressed him.

  ‘Hundalani, make sure we don’t lose her.’ The Inspector was rubbing his hands irritably over his eyes. ‘She has our only piece of evidence. This is a risky strategy.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘The bone must be significant. She’ll lead us to him in the end, I’m sure of that.’

  Then abruptly Lall rose to his feet. He was tired and he wanted to get out of the stuffy interrogation room.

  ‘Do you really think she is his accomplice, sir?’ Captain Hundalani enquired nervously.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. But the bone means something to someone. Of that I am quite sure.’

  Suddenly, for the first time in as long as Captain Hundalani could remember, Inspector Lall looked him full in the face and smiled. The smile was so unexpected and so very incongruous that it caused a shiver of terror to run down the young Captain’s spine.

  ‘Our own leads have now run dry, Captain. Let’s see what our star journalist does next. Perhaps she can help us with our detective work.’

  7

  ‘How dare you send me out here?’

  Nancy was almost shouting into the phone. The guards on the steps of the police station stared in fascination as she strode away along the pavement. The Delhi crowds parted before her; shoppers and businessmen turned and watched her marching down the street. Back in New York, on the other end of the line, Dan Fischer, the editor of the Trib, was trying to calm her down.

  ‘Nancy, I had no idea. Listen, I had a visit from the CIA this morning as well. Just let me explain . . .’

  ‘Well, I bet they didn’t arrest you, take you to a police station and threaten you with twenty-five years in the black hole of Calcutta. Leprosy? Any threats of leprosy thrown in there?’

  ‘No, but Nancy, listen . . .’

  ‘How could you send me here? Perhaps next you would like to send me to North Korea? Perhaps you think this hasn’t been enough of a challenge for me?’

  ‘Nancy, please. Let me explain . . .’

  Biting her tongue, Nancy waited to hear his excuses.

  ‘I had no idea that this had all blown up until this morning. I was as much in the dark as you were. I would never have sent you had I known that the paper was going to get embroiled in an espionage row between India and China. And as for Anton, it’s complete bullshit . . .’

  ‘Tell that to the Gestapo over here.’

  ‘Look, the Indians and the Chinese are totally paranoid. They are always giving each other the frights and finding excuses to get at each other . . .’

  Nancy fell silent.

  Dan Fischer continued: ‘Now, I was woken this morning by two CIA officers who said that they were obliged to visit me as they had been asked by their opposite numbers in Indian Intelligence to investigate Herzog. They told me that they did not believe the charges and that as far as they know Herzog has never been involved with any Intelligence agencies. I told them that I also was certain that this was the case. Anton is a friend of mine, I’ve known him for years. It is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘Well, if he’s a friend of yours then why aren’t you trying to find him?’

  Nancy waved furiously at an approaching taxi that slid to a halt next to her on the road. She opened the door and got in.

  ‘Hang on one sec, Dan. Can you take me to the office of the International Herald Tribune on Akhbar Street please . . .’

  ‘Nancy – this is not the first time he’s gone AWOL. It’s his style . . .’

  ‘Not for three months, Dan.’

  ‘Listen, the CIA were very clear. The best course of action is just to do nothing.’

  ‘That sounds very convenient for you.’

  ‘Oh come on, Nancy, that’s not fair.’

  Suddenly Nancy became aware that she was still clutching the cloth bundle containing the grisly bone. This made her very confused. She realized that for some reason – God knows what it was – she didn’t want to tell Dan Fischer about the bone trumpet. And then she was experiencing a profound urge to tell the driver to take her somewhere else, away from the office and away from the Herzog affair. Then she thought she just needed time to think; she needed to work out what on earth was going on.

  ‘Listen, Dan, I’m going to the office, or somewhere I won’t be hassled and arrested. I’ll call you in a little while.’

  ‘Sure Nancy – but are you OK?’

  ‘Look, I’m about as OK as someone can be who’s just been dragged from a jetlagged stupor, interrogated and then threatened with life imprisonment . . .’

  ‘I am sorry – I really am. And please, just take it easy. We are pulling out all the stops this end to sort things out. The head of the Senate Foreign Relations committee is getting in touch with the Indian Ambassador. Just take it easy, do a local-colour story if you want to take your mind off things . . . something about elephants or farming . . . We’ll have everything cleared up momentarily. I promise. It’s important you stay there. Anton always wanted you to replace him if he ever went missing – so do it for him.’

  For a second Nancy felt quite sick.

  ‘What do you mean? He told you to send me here?’

  ‘Yes. I always ask all my senior people who they think I should consider if regional vacancies come up . . . He always insisted you were perfect for the South Asia job . . .’

  ‘But he didn’t even know me; I met him so seldom . . . I hardly spoke to him . . .’

  ‘Well, the man read the paper, you know. He did actually read your articles.’

  ‘So he knew I was coming to Delhi?’

  ‘Well, how would he? No one has been in touch with him since he disappeared. I just meant he always recommended you to me. But forcibly, with passion. Like you were the only one he thought could do the job. That’s why I was so delighted you wanted it so much when it came up.’

  Nancy shook her head in confusion: Dan Fischer didn’t know that the bone trumpet had been addressed to her and he hadn’t been privy to Inspector Lall’s insinuations. She had begun to accept that Herzog must have known – somehow, she didn’t know precisely how – that she was coming to Delhi. Perhaps he was so certain of his influence with the editor that he just assumed she would be the one to replace him. Perhaps it was a deliberate gamble on his part, just in case. To surprise her, make her perplexed. But why, why would he do that? It made no sense. For a moment Nancy felt she might throw up; then she felt strangely passive and as if she was being manipulated by forces beyond her comprehension. She thought of her compulsion to go to India, her vivid recurring dreams of the high green valleys of Tibet, of the fact that Herzog had indeed selected her for the cub reporter’s scholarship at the Sorbonne, and now – apparently – for this – but th
en a second later she remembered why she was newly released from the police station and her anger returned.

  ‘Look, Dan, that’s all very flattering. I don’t know what the hell to make of it, but sure, I’m overwhelmed. Delighted. Now, hotshot hack that I am, the question I’m running through my mind is why we don’t just run a story on Anton’s disappearance: tell the world that he’s missing, tell them that the Indian police are completely out of control? Stir things up a little, see what happens?’

  ‘Please, Nancy, have a little patience. Yes, eventually that might be a tactic. But at present, we need the help of these governments. Now is not the time to alienate them.’

  ‘Believe me, Inspector Lall and his friends seem pretty damn alienated to me already. I don’t understand you, Dan. He’s a friend of yours and he’s one of our team and you’re hanging him out to dry.’

  ‘Nancy, you have to let me call this one. I take your point, but I’m calling it and I believe I know what I’m doing. Just try to take it easy. Promise me you’ll do that, at least.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll take it easy. I’ll get myself straight to a Keralan yoga retreat and get myself busy comparing Ashtanga with Hatha, if that’s what you want. Just please let me know if you get any further with this business. And if you don’t hear from me, you know where I am – the black goddamn hole of Calcutta.’

  Dan Fischer was probably more worried about headlines than anything else, she thought: ‘Renegade Herald Tribune Journalist Arrested for Espionage’ – that would hardly sell well with the shareholders. Herzog had always been a tricky horse to back; she had a sense that Fischer had been fire-fighting for him for years. She liked Dan Fischer; on a good day she would have considered him a friend. He was a formidable journalist; a powerhouse of ambition and courage. He was only forty-two years old himself, not that much older than her, and they had plenty of mutual friends. He was hilarious, quick as a whip and exceptionally cunning. He threw monumental parties and charmed everyone. He picked his battles carefully, and he knew perfectly well that anyone was expendable – the brand came first and the shareholders certainly wouldn’t want a big and very public row with the Chinese and Indian governments, she thought, with a mounting sense of revulsion; it might have a knock-on effect, it might cause other governments to withdraw support for the paper. It might hurt sales.