Lu again smiled. ‘Then let’s hope that your winning streak continues. Sam Coia is no fool.’
A thought crossed Grant’s mind. If there was a fight and Coia was killed what would happen to him?
Lu again smiled. ‘Nepalese prisons may be no worse than average, but I prefer freedom. You would stay in one for a long time. Too long, in fact, to enjoy living very much when you were released.’
It was a clear warning, and Grant had learned nothing which mattered from the man who had so systematically grilled him. He handed over a note. ‘Tell your boys to keep the change.’
The Mongol shook his head. ‘For your first visit you are guest of the house. After that . . . we shall see.’
‘You will give my message to Miss Dove?’
‘And you would like to dine with her tomorrow evening.’ It was a statement of fact and not a question. ‘So I’ll send my car to your house at nineteen hours.’
‘Good night,’ said Grant quietly, ‘And I’ll bear in mind what you said about prisons. Though tonight I sleep where I want.’
‘I hope so indeed, Doctor,’ said Lu smiling. ‘I hope so. And good night.’ The flimsy door closed and Grant was once more in the dusty street.
He glanced at his watch. Twenty-one hours exactly. The restaurant was beginning to fill up and he could hear whining music from a transistor radio nearby. A trishaw drew up alongside and he made up his mind. He would still operate on the programme he had planned. First a trip round the city, then a pot of tea with bed around midnight.
The road which led past the Royal Palace was almost deserted except for an occasional zebra-striped taxi, but some distance after the palace and near a major crossing at the Park Restaurant he cut right and into the old city. The trishaw driver paused less than fifty yards along the road. ‘New Ti-bit Inn?’
Grant looked into a dark narrow street. ‘What say?’
The driver pretended to smoke. ‘New Ti-bit Inn.’ A horny hand pointed at a ramshackle building near the corner and Grant read the sign above a shuttered door. The New Tibetan Restaurant. He was learning Nepalese pronunciation, and to all of Katmandu the place was simply ‘The Ti-bit Inn’. He shook his head, and glanced at the map. He wanted to get orientated and planned a circle which would take him home in less than an hour. ‘Indra Chowk and on to Durbar Square, Taleju Temple and Temple of the Living Goddess, then on to New Road and stop near Hotel Shanker.’
The man looked disappointed. ‘No smoke?’
Grant took the easy way out. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ and smiled as the man relaxed.
For his first evening he was content just to sit and look. And even for him the place was fantastic. Temples silhouetted in the moonlight to give a skyline which no artist could ever have conceived, while the slither of feet on dusty roads signalled approach of a non-stop stream of elegant crowds, hill people and locals in a mélange of colour which glinted crimson, black and gold against reflected light from stalls or shops. Tribal women with gold nose-rings or plaques of gold the size of saucers anchored to the sides of their head fascinated him, while the haughty bearing of lithe tough men impressed him more than he had expected—even although he knew the reputation of the Gurkhas as well as any man—but here in their own country, and even out of uniform, there was an air of competence and self-reliance which had disappeared in most of the cities he knew in the West. And he was brooding about the reasons for Western decadence when his trishaw drew up near the Shanker.
His own quarters offered neither tea nor food after breakfast, but the Shanker was accessible and rated second in Katmandu. Only a handful of tourists occupied the lounge, but tea was both hot and strong and Grant decided at the first stroke of midnight to walk the few hundred yards which separated him from bed. He felt unexpectedly relaxed and was almost looking forward to a showdown with Coia, who rated as a comparatively minor figure in the global activities of Mafia, but as one very dangerous man in New York State.
His bearer was asleep in a tiny room near the gate as Grant entered the grounds, but he rose, looking unexpectedly embarrassed, to open the door. ‘Mr. Narain, sir, left a message. A Mr. Coia arrived today. There was mistake about room. Mr. Narain gave me this letter.’
Grant opened it without any great interest. But it was a matter of courtesy.
My Dear Mr. Grant,
I have made terrible mistake. Another guest reserved your room by letter and I must keep promise. I have to give it to him Mr. Grant, and Mr. Grant I am sure you will understand. Please go to other room prepared Mr. Grant and sleep well. We will see Living Goddess tomorrow and do not be angry with me, please. Good night Mr. Grant and if you want smoke I fix that too. All very legal. Also girls if you please. But please not be angry.
Very happily yours,
Narain
Grant wished only that he could write Nepalese as fluently as Narain could in English.
He fingered a twenty-rupee note—a fortune for the young man beside him. ‘Any other guests?’
The young man shook his head. ‘Only Coia, mister.’
‘And no other staff boys? No Coia bearer?’
‘No, sahib. But why you ask?’
Grant handed over the twenty-rupee note. ‘Then you go back to sleep and see nothing. You know the three monkeys, hear, see and say nothing. You all three monkeys in one.’ He held out another twenty. ‘Just see nothing, say nothing and hear nothing. Understand?’
The boy grinned. ‘Understand.’ He walked back to his sleeping bag and turned on to his right side with his back to the drive while Grant cautiously entered the house. His original room was on the second floor and it gave to a charming balcony from which he had seen some of the snow mountains in the early evening. He paused at the door beside Coia’s crocodile leather shoes and listened to the sound of heavy snoring. And then he switched on the light. The man sat up in the same instant and when he saw Grant a crooked grin spread over his face. ‘You got the wrong room, pal. Didn’t Narain give you the letter?’
Grant edged slowly forward. He still had a tactical advantage, and where Coia was concerned surprise could be his only chance. ‘I got the letter. And now I get the room.’ He suddenly stepped forward, and as Coia leaned backwards, balancing to get out of the bed, Grant’s right hand cut him across the throat in a karate chop which could sometimes be lethal. The man grunted and slumped against the headboard flat unconscious. He felt the man’s pulse and smiled thinly when he found it ticking over at around seventy. But breathing was shallow and there was an ugly weal across the front of the American’s neck which was slowly staining purple and crimson.
He lifted him bodily and carried him down two flights of stairs, stripped to the waist, opened a bathroom door and drew the bath while Coia lay limp on the floor. For Grant, Coia represented Mafia at its worst in one of America’s most important states. But if he was going to die in Nepal his death would have to look convincing, and for once Grant decided to let Fate take a hand. If Coia recovered consciousness before the bath was filled, then he would be kept alive for questioning. If he was still unconscious, then he would be heaved in and allowed to drown. Grant’s story would then be simple. He would pass the night in the second room given by Narain, waken for breakfast and demand a showdown, insist on having his room back and an explanation for discourteous behaviour. This would lead to Coia’s discovery, and after that Grant would play it by ear. But one part of his mind hoped that the man would surface before the bath was full because there was a story to unravel, and although Grant was on leave he knew that it was his duty to get on with it.
The flow of water was slow, and the temperature close upon being ice-cold, but Grant waited, smoking steadily till the bath was half filled. He then stubbed out his cigarette, lifted Coia bodily and allowed him to slither in without a splash.
The man dropped under water, spluttered and suddenly opened his eyes. Grant knew that his reaction time might, even after the karate cut, be above normal and reached for a bath towel. Seconds later he had stuff
ed sheets of toilet roll into the man’s mouth, gagged him with a handkerchief and bound ankles and legs below the knees with thick towelling. As they dropped back into the water he noted with satisfaction that the knots tightened while the towel became soaked, and then he concentrated on Coia’s hands. The thing had been too easy to date, but Coia had the reputation for being a tough character and it was common sense to treat him as such. He unfolded a pair of nail scissors which he carried in a hip pocket, carefully cut two slits through the bath-mat and forced Coia’s arms into them from behind. It acted like a modified straitjacket, and only then did he pause to pull out the plug and allow at least some of the water to drain away while Coia lay motionless on the bottom.
It was a clever technique and Grant calculated that Coia was bent on breaking his nerve, or tempting him into a movement which would let him get the upper hand. He also figured that Coia was still figuring out what had happened, regaining his strength and planning tactics. All in all there was nothing to be lost by playing for time and Grant was content to check that the knots held firm while he finished his cigarette.
His problem was simple. Now that a show-down had been forced upon him he had a duty to confirm Coia’s link with the Mafia and then pin-point exactly who and what he was after in Nepal. Decision as to his future would hinge on how matters ticked during the next thirty minutes or so.
Coia had now lain motionless for over five minutes and Grant was impressed by the man’s tactics. The cold water didn’t seem to distress him unduly or even make him show much physical reaction, and his eyes while they looked at Grant were enigmatic.
Grant at last laid down his scissors, stubbed out his cigarette and stared at his victim. ‘You can hear me. But nod your head just to confirm that you’re receiving normally.’
Coia’s eyes hardened and then he nodded curtly.
‘Then listen.’ Grant leaned forward and touched the impromptu gag. ‘I’ll take this off so that you can speak. But if you start anything I’ll be more disagreeable than you can imagine. So no nonsense. Do you agree to behave if I remove this thing?’
Coia paused, and then reluctantly nodded his head. He was staring at Grant with a cold, clinical interest which warned that he would get away with nothing. The man was a trained expert. Given one quarter of a flickering chance and their positions would be reversed.
The gag was gently removed, but before Grant prised the paper gag from Coia’s mouth he gave one final warning. ‘Work the rest of that rubbish out of your mouth and then I’ll give you a drink of water. But no funny stuff, and speak only when you’re spoken to. Get me?’
Coia nodded, then systematically spat out the bolus of paper which clogged his tongue and gums. He was still lying with his arms behind his back anchored by the weight of his body and the bath-mat, while his legs lay limp, with muscles relaxed in the chilly water.
Grant watched him with satisfaction. To date he was cooperating, and then he decided on shock tactics plus a massive bluff. ‘When do you expect to fix Harmony Dove?’
The word ‘fix’ was deliberate, and capable of almost any interpretation from meet, bribe, influence or persuade down to kill, and Grant was watching every flickering reaction. ‘Tell me,’ he added gently, ‘and you may save yourself a lot of heart-break.’
Coia drew a deep breath. ‘Let me outa this thing,’ he said at last, ‘and then we can talk.’
Grant believed in no compromise. Lifting the scissors he plunged them for nearly half an inch into Coia’s arm. ‘Talk,’ he said briefly.
The man gasped and his eyes lighted for a second on the blood which was trickling along his arm into the water. ‘This week,’ he said, at last. ‘No definite time schedule.’
Grant lifted the scissors thoughtfully. ‘Watch it, Coia. Don’t bluff too often. When and where?’
The man stared almost curiously at Grant and when he spoke his manner was unexpectedly quiet. ‘Friday at her house. But only if things go according to plan. No firm schedule. Fluid, kinda. Play it by ear. Or is that too difficult for a hatchet guy like you to understand?’
Grant shook his head. It was still a time for bluff. ‘And your contact? The Mafia doesn’t send hoodlums like you to a place like this without preparation. When and where do you meet the contact man?’ He was now relying on the full force of his own personality to impress. ‘No second chance, Coia. And don’t come any of the Mafia-won’t-talk stuff. Just keep telling the truth. A good name and address could save you a lot of heart-break.’ He saw Coia’s face cloud with fear and then a familiar voice came from behind. The door had been left unlocked and he glanced round to see Charlie—or, as his card said, Bhim Sen—standing behind him.
The man was smiling, and his English was now unexpectedly fluent. ‘Mr. Lu sent me along, sir. Said maybe trouble with this man, but I see you got everything controlled.’
Grant drew a deep breath. ‘Sort of, Charlie, sort of. But keep round where I can see you. Maybe you figure on a rescue act. Or maybe I’m interfering with your own plans, because this man is here on business. Some of it could be your sort of business.’
Charlie smiled politely. ‘Not my business, sir.’
‘Then what brings you here, Charlie? And stick to truth.’
The young man eased a toothpick from some inner pocket and cautiously fiddled with a molar. ‘Mr. Lu sent me. And maybe I can help, but I like things polite. You got a short temper, Dr. Grant. So if you want my help try to remember that life here is very difficult for a person like me with no schooling, no cash and no political pull. I’m a lone wolf and I like to be happy. Try and not lose that temper with Charlie, sir. He doesn’t like it.’ He paused. ‘Mr. Lu might not like it either.’
Grant’s fingers were caressing Coia’s neck and he was ready for anything, but Charlie had slithered into his line of vision and apart from some tightening of his jaw muscles he seemed completely relaxed. ‘Sorry, Charlie. I’ll remember. But this is a tough baby. What are we going to do with him?’
Charlie raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a serious question?’
Grant nodded. ‘I’ve got to make him talk.’
Charlie fumbled once more in an inside pocket, this time pulling out a tiny bottle of dark brown sticky fluid. ‘Raw opium, sir. Rub it into one eye and he’ll talk in case you do it to the other.’
Coia took a deep breath, and when he spoke his voice was still hoarse. ‘Can I say something?’
Grant looked at him curiously. ‘Sure. But make it short, soft and to the point.’
‘I’m not here on business. It was chance that Harmony Dove happens to be here as well. But when I got a news flash about her I decided to mix work with pleasure.’
‘Charlie.’ Grant’s voice was abrupt. ‘A drop of that in his left eye.’
The two men moved in the same second. Later it seemed to Grant that Charlie was the fastest thing he had ever seen as he expertly dropped a sticky bead of liquid into Coia’s left eye while Grant held the lids open. And in almost the same second he had stuffed a dirty handkerchief into the man’s mouth so that a scream of agony was stifled at birth. ‘You don’t want noise, sir,’ Charlie said apologetically as he watched Coia writhe in agony. ‘Wait a bit and next time he’ll speak truth.’
Grant lit another cigarette and tossed the packet to Charlie. ‘Thanks, son, and tell me, after he does talk, what then?’
Charlie smiled broadly. ‘We can fill him up with whisky, make him smoke a few pipes and when he blacks out dump him in a brothel at Balaju. When he wakens up he’ll be given a bill and won’t know what happened.’ He paused and grinned broadly. ‘The bill will clean him out, but if he can’t pay the locals will beat him up, take him to a quiet bank and force him to cash cheques with a knife pricking his rear. Then they’ll give him a dose of something slipped into a cup of tea and take him halfway to Tibet where the police should pick him up for being on the Chinese Road without a permit.’
Grant looked at him with flickering admiration. ‘And how much of this
will he remember after a load of dope?’
Charlie grinned widely. ‘He won’t remember what’s truth or what was a dream.’
The two men were staring at Coia with calculating judgement, waiting until he was fit to speak, when the door again opened and a throaty voice took them both by surprise. ‘Hi, Charlie. And hi, you too, David Grant. Long time no see.’ Harmony Dove was leaning against the wall, her figure silhouetted against its bleak whiteness, and she was wearing a pair of orange-coloured jeans, a black suède leather top and flat sandals which showed a golden half-moon at the base of each nail. She was nursing a sub-machine-gun and Grant noted that it was pointed steadily towards the man in the bath. ‘I thought you might be short on arms. But don’t let me interrupt things.’ She deftly flicked out a cigarette from an automatic case, lit and inhaled almost in one movement. ‘To put your mind at ease, our friend Lu thought I’d better be in on this. I gather it’s a kinda family party.’
Grant saw that Charlie was wholly relaxed, that he was half sitting on the bath and that his eyes had now lost the wary look which had marked them earlier in the evening. ‘Glad to see you, Miss Dove.’
She shrugged impatiently. ‘Harmony will do.’
‘And for the sake of the record,’ he added, ‘who is going to run this show?’
The girl was momentarily serious. ‘I am.’
‘But what really brought you over here?’
She flicked ash into the bath and pointed towards Coia. ‘This And incidentally, Charlie,’ she added softly, ‘gag him good, will you? We don’t want fuss.’ She turned back to Grant. ‘I wanted to ask Coia some questions, and I had a notion to see how you ticked as well.’
Grant took one symbolic step backwards. ‘Then over to you.’
She nodded briefly, handed him the gun and smiled as she double-checked on the gag which now half-smothered Coia’s face. ‘Good boy, Charlie, but now we act real tough.’ She lifted the match which Charlie had dropped on the floor, broke it in two and leaned over the bath. When she stood up Coia’s eyelids were separated, his eyes staring open, with each end of the wood anchored within the flesh of his lids. A trickle of blood was slithering across the whites and the man’s cheeks had blenched with fear. There was a quiet efficiency about Harmony which was impressive. ‘Neat,’ she said at last, ‘but hurts like hell. Especially after the first half-hour. So we’ll roast him for a spell and get him into a frame of mind for opening up a little.’ She squatted on to the floor, leaned against the wall and clasped her knees. ‘Like to hear something?’
Goddesses Never Die Page 3
