The Messiah Secret cb-3

by James Becker

  It hadn’t the same sense of frantic urgency as Mumbai either, and outside the terminal building the sense of tranquillity deepened. The scenery was spectacular, mountains, hills and valleys extending in all directions. There was what looked like a monastery on the side of one hill that Bronson had actually seen before — it had flashed past the wing of the aircraft, alarmingly close, as the plane had come in to land.

  But there was no sign of the town of Leh itself.

  ‘Is this the right place?’ Bronson asked, a little breathlessly.

  ‘Yes. The airport’s about seven miles south of the town, so we’ll have to take a cab there. Now, just a warning. We’re up at about eleven and a half thousand feet here, so don’t over-exert yourself — it’ll take time to acclimatize to that altitude. Within about twenty-four hours we should be feeling fine again.’

  ‘I’m already out of breath,’ Bronson said. ‘But at least it’s nothing like as hot here as it was back in Mumbai.’

  ‘That’s the low humidity. The temperature’s probably not a lot different; it just feels a lot cooler.’

  The cab ride didn’t take long, but the road was far from the smoothest surface Bronson had ever driven along. From the research he’d done before they left Cairo, he knew that in the winter much of the area was impassable because of thick snow, and he guessed that the harsh weather conditions contributed to the very broken and potholed road surface.

  ‘It’s bigger than I expected,’ Bronson said, as the cab — an elderly Mitsubishi four-by-four — drove down Main Bazaar Road, where there seemed to be plenty of shops and restaurants, including a vehicle hire outlet, then turned off into Fort Road and pulled up beside the kerb.

  ‘Hotel, guest house, here,’ the driver said, gesticulating in both directions along the street as he lifted their bags out of the boot.

  ‘Jule,’ Angela said, bowing slightly.

  ‘Joo-lay?’ Bronson asked, mimicking Angela’s pronunciation. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s perhaps the single most useful word in the Ladakhi language,’ she replied. ‘It’s a kind of multi-purpose word that can be translated as “hello”, “goodbye”, “please” or “thank you”. What it means really depends on the context and the circumstances.’

  As the taxi drove away, they looked up and down the street. There were numerous signs outside the buildings indicating the locations of guest houses, small hotels and various restaurants.

  ‘This is great,’ Bronson said. ‘My kind of place!’

  ‘Just don’t expect too much, Chris. En-suite and five-star these hotels aren’t, but all the reports I’ve read say that they’re good and clean, and the owners are usually very welcoming.’

  They chose one of the bigger guest houses, and after Angela’s prediction about the lack of facilities, they were pleasantly surprised to find that the twin room they chose had got an en-suite bathroom, or rather a shower room, with running hot and cold water. They left their bags in their room, then walked back outside. They had several things to do, and not much time to do them in.

  ‘The first thing we must find is a travel agent,’ Angela said. ‘We’ve got to get the Inner Line entry permits so we can visit the Nubra Valley.’

  There were a number of travel agents in the Main Bazaar Road. They chose one, who promised that their documents would be ready for them if they returned at the end of the afternoon.

  They then walked on to the car hire agency Bronson had spotted on the way into Leh. They already knew that the two most common forms of transport hired by tourists in the area were motorcycles — trail-bikes, in fact — and four-by-four jeeps.

  Bronson finally settled on a Nissan Patrol with a diesel engine — big, tough and hopefully unbreakable — with extra fuel cans strapped inside the rear compartment, and with two spare wheels and tyres. It looked like the kind of truck that could cross the Sahara Desert without the slightest problem.

  He drove it to the closest filling station, topped up the tank and all the extra cans with diesel, checked the tyre pressures and then parked it just down the street while they sorted out the rest of the things they’d need. They walked into a trekking hire shop and rented a tent, two sleeping bags and ground sheets, a portable stove and cooking equipment, because they didn’t know where they’d end up each evening, and it was obviously better to be prepared, just in case they did get stuck out in the countryside.

  They knew that the overnight temperature could plummet to below zero, even in the summer months, so they bought warm clothing — woollen shirts, anoraks and padded trousers — that they’d certainly need once they left the shelter of the vehicle to begin their search. Finally, they bought a dozen water containers and filled them all to the brim, and then bought sufficient tinned and packet food to last them at least four days.

  They still had a little while to wait until their permits would be ready for collection, so they headed towards the old town that lay at the base of Namgyal Hill. It was a labyrinth of narrow alleys and passageways, lined with houses.

  Bronson could see piles of wood stacked outside most of the properties, and other heaps of a lumpy brown substance that was more difficult to identify.

  ‘I suppose that’s firewood for the winter,’ he said, pointing at the stacks of wood, ‘but what’s that other stuff?’

  ‘Shit,’ Angela replied.

  Bronson raised his eyebrows.

  ‘No, it really is. It’s dried dung, mainly from camels — they use it for fuel in the winter as well.’

  ‘Ah,’ Bronson said, looking with renewed interest at the piles of knobbly brown stuff. ‘Doesn’t it chuck up a bit when they burn it?’

  ‘The guidebook doesn’t say, but I guess it’s probably best to be upwind of Leh when they light this stuff.’

  They walked on, past a couple of small stone structures shaped something like miniature towers or domes.

  ‘Those are chortens,’ Angela said. ‘They contain holy relics of various types. And that’s a mani wall.’

  She pointed at a wall directly in front of them. It was inset with a couple of stone slabs, and each of them was carved with some kind of script.

  ‘That’s the sacred invocation Om mani padme hum, which translates as “Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus”. You’re always supposed to walk past mani walls clockwise — and do the same with prayer wheels and chortens, in fact — which means you keep them on your right. I’ve no idea why.’

  Then, as the sun slipped beneath the top of the hills lying to the west, they returned to the travel agent. Only a few weeks earlier, Bronson had been driving through the English countryside to meet Angela. Now, here he was on the roof of the world looking for a priceless treasure that had been lost for two millennia. He felt a surge of excitement at what lay ahead.

  ‘These your permits,’ the agent said with a smile, his English surprisingly good. ‘And these photocopies for you.’

  He handed over several sheets of paper, and Angela and Bronson looked at them with interest.

  ‘Why so many photocopies?’ Bronson asked.

  ‘For checkpoints,’ the agent explained. ‘Each checkpoint look at original, and take one copy. I give you each ten copies. Should be enough. Later you want more, you come back see me, yes?’

  Bronson nodded agreement.

  ‘They’re valid for seven days from tomorrow,’ Bronson said as they left the agency. ‘Will that be long enough?’

  ‘I bloody well hope so. The valley’s pretty big, but I think I know where we should start looking.’

  48

  ‘It’s all set,’ Rodini said when Nick Masters sat down opposite him in another cafe in a quiet street in the centre of Islamabad — a different cafe this time, just in case anyone was taking an interest in either of them. Rodini had set up the meet in a five-second call to Masters’ mobile phone thirty minutes earlier. ‘Have all your men arrived now? And you’ve sourced the weapons you need?’

  ‘Yes — everyone’s here. The assault rifles and pist
ols weren’t a problem, and we even found a sniper rifle. We’re ready,’ Masters replied.

  Rodini nodded. ‘Good. Now, as I told you before, we can only take you as far as the territory just north of the Indian border. Obviously we can then suggest places where you can cross, but that whole area is under a heavy Indian military presence because of problems over the border — they’re worried about China as well as about us.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Well, the safest option would have been for you all to have entered India legitimately, though obviously you couldn’t have done so carrying weapons.’

  ‘I’d have preferred to do that as well,’ Masters said, ‘but the timescale didn’t allow it.’

  Rodini nodded. ‘Our only other choice is to get you across the border in one of the less well-patrolled sections. The biggest problem here lies in satisfying the Indian troops you’ll meet in the Nubra Valley area. I’ve done what I can to help with this, and I have got another idea I’m still working on.

  ‘As for transport I’ve got a pool of vehicles our troops seized while patrolling the border. I’ve picked out a couple of Indian-registered four-by-fours that you can use. The bonus is that they were both used for smuggling, so the false floors and other hidden compartments will conceal most of the weapons you’ve bought. I’m having those jeeps delivered to one of our forward bases down to the south-east of Hushe, in eastern Baltistan, which is only about ten miles from the Indian border. I can arrange to fly you and your men over there by helicopter, but before that happens I’ll need your passports. If you’re going to stand any chance of surviving scrutiny by Indian Army troops, you must have both India visas in your passports and Inner Line permits, which allow you to travel in the Nubra Valley and other areas close to the border.’

  ‘No problem,’ Masters said. ‘I’ll collect them as soon as I get back to the hotel.’

  ‘Then, once you’ve made it across the border, you can move around without any difficulty, as long as your passes are good enough and the Indian troops don’t realize you’re carrying weapons. The next problem is communications. I can provide you with a two-way radio, but it probably won’t work properly in that terrain because of the mountains, so a satellite phone is the better option. I can let you have two of those. I’ll also supply dashboard-mounted GPS units for the jeeps and a few hand-held ones as well.’

  ‘This is beginning to sound expensive,’ Masters remarked.

  ‘It will be, my friend, but never fear. I’m sure your boss — whoever he is — can afford it.’ A smile spread slowly across Rodini’s face.

  ‘Now, the final matter is the recovery operation. I know you won’t tell me what the object itself is, or where you’re hoping to find it, so I’ve had to make some assumptions myself. Presumably it’s buried in the ground or hidden in a cave?’

  Masters nodded.

  ‘And I presume your plan is to recover it and load it into the back of one of your vehicles?’

  ‘If it will fit, yes. Ideally, we’d like to recover it, move it only as far as a safe helo landing site, and then air-lift it back to Islamabad and put it straight on to a transport bird heading for the States. We can organize the last part of the journey easily enough, but can you lay on a big helo — something like a Sikorsky or a CH-53? It’ll need to be a troop-carrier, big enough to carry the recovered object inside. I definitely don’t want the object swinging around on the end of a winch cable. And the chopper needs to be at Alert Sixty or better. We won’t have time to wait around for it.’

  Rodini considered the request for a few moments, then nodded. In fact, he’d already earmarked a troop helicopter for the operation. He even knew which pilot he’d instruct to fly the mission, and had made sure he’d be in the chopper himself, once it was en route to the pick-up point.

  He wanted to see the relic with his own eyes, because he didn’t believe for a second Masters’ claim that the object was of no value. No collector, no matter how wealthy, would mount an operation of the sort Masters was running to grab something that was worthless.

  ‘You were right. This is getting more expensive by the minute,’ Rodini said.

  ‘Ballpark?’ Masters asked.

  Rodini checked his notes again, then gave Masters the figure he’d had in mind from the first. ‘One hundred thousand American,’ he said. ‘That includes the vehicles — you can keep them or dump them, as you wish — and the chopper on standby and at Alert Thirty with effect from nine tomorrow morning.’

  ‘That’s totally bloody extortionate, and you know it,’ Masters snapped. ‘I figured fifty grand, tops. It’s two jeeps, a couple of flights in a chopper, two sat-phones and a bit of forgery. How the hell did you come up with that figure?’

  ‘You know how. Because I can supply everything that you need and because I won’t ask you questions that you don’t want to answer. You’re very welcome to try to find somebody else if you think that’s too expensive. And it’s half now, as in right now.’

  ‘Meaning what, precisely?’

  ‘Meaning a transfer to my Swiss bank today, or the price goes up ten thousand. I’ll want the second half on completion of the operation.’

  Masters knew Rodini had him over a barrel. He didn’t know any other high-ranking military officers in that part of Pakistan, and if he tried to use one of his other possible contacts Rodini might well hear about it and block him. And a junior officer couldn’t just snap his fingers and a helicopter would appear — yet Rodini could, and frequently did. And, Masters reflected, it wasn’t as if it was his money anyway.

  ‘OK, you blood-sucking bastard, it’s a deal,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell my principal to wire you the money. I can guarantee the instruction will be given within the hour, but I can’t be certain when the funds will arrive in Switzerland. That’s completely out of our hands.’

  ‘Your credit’s good with me,’ Rodini said. ‘As soon as the first fifty thousand gets to my account I’ll keep my side of the deal. But if it doesn’t arrive, you and your men will have a really long wait for the helicopter.’

  49

  A Dhruv — the utility helicopter built in India by the HAL company — came to a hover and then settled on to a concrete hardstanding at a small Indian Army base just outside Karu, on the east bank of the Indus and about thirty miles south of Leh.

  The howl of the jet engines diminished as the pilot closed the throttles and lowered the collective, the parallel steel skids spreading slightly apart as the weight of the aircraft settled on to them. Safely on the ground, the pilot initiated the shut-down procedure, the engine noise dying away even further. The four-bladed main rotor slowed visibly, and eventually came to a stop, the blades dipping and weaving slightly in the wind blowing across the army base. Only then did the doors of the Dhruv open.

  Two men emerged, one climbing out with the ease that came from long familiarity with the aircraft, the other man — a shorter and stockier figure in a set of faded green flying overalls — clearly having some difficulty. The pilot walked round the nose of the helicopter to assist him, then both men walked away towards an adjacent single-storey building, the shorter man carrying a bulky leather carry-on bag.

  Just under an hour later, Father Michael Killian sat in a hard wooden chair in the briefing room and wondered yet again why the place wasn’t air conditioned. It wasn’t the clinging, muggy heat that had assaulted him when he’d stepped out of the aircraft at Delhi, but it was still hot enough inside the room to be uncomfortable, even in the relative cool of the early evening.

  He had drunk two bottles of ice-cold water and pecked impatiently at a tray of snacks he’d found on the self-service bar on one side of the room while he waited to speak to the officer in charge.

  The door finally opened and a smartly dressed Indian Army officer stepped inside. Killian was unfamiliar with American military ranks, and knew virtually nothing about the insignia of foreign armed forces, but simply from the man’s bearing it was clear he was a senior officer. />
  ‘You’re Father Killian?’ the man asked, his English fluent.

  Killian nodded.

  ‘Colonel Mani Tembla,’ the officer said, extending his hand. ‘I’ve been instructed to assist you in any way that I can. But first, I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Actually, I do mind, Colonel,’ Killian said. ‘Time is of the essence here, and it’s essential that we find these two people before they begin their search.’

  Tembla looked mildly amused by Killian’s tone.

  ‘We already know where they are, and exactly what they’re doing,’ he said calmly. ‘What happened to your ear?’ he added.

  ‘I had an accident,’ Killian snapped, reaching up to check the dressing on the left side of his head. His fingers strayed across his cheek, feeling the scratches inflicted by Angela Lewis. They, at least, were healing well. ‘So where are they?’

  ‘They’re in Leh, in a guest house.’

  Killian stood up in frustration. ‘What?’

  ‘I gave orders earlier today that Bronson and Lewis were to be identified as soon as they arrived in Leh. That wasn’t difficult — there aren’t that many flights up here, and my men spotted the English couple almost immediately. I’d already advised the local police, and they quickly discovered where they were staying and identified the vehicle they’d hired. All perfectly routine stuff, I can assure you. But it did raise one important question.’

  ‘And what is that?’ Killian demanded.

  ‘All in good time. Now sit down. Calm yourself,’ Tembla instructed. ‘My orders have been both specific and vague, which is somewhat unusual. I’m aware that tracking these two people has a very high priority for somebody in my government — the fact that you, an American citizen, are sitting here in this base is sufficient proof of that — but what nobody has bothered to tell me is why. The wording of the orders I was given suggested that they might be terrorists, and this is a very sensitive area, because of the borders with Pakistan and China.