Valley of Death

by Scott Mariani

  By that logic, Amal had already been dead for days. A virtual one hundred per cent chance that his corpse was here in Delhi somewhere with its throat cut or its face shot off, buried in a shallow grave or dumped in a sewer or left to rot in some dingy slum or disused industrial space and never to be found.

  Not good at all.

  Ben pushed deeper into his thoughts, like an underwater swimmer churning through a pitch-black river. He tried to put himself into the minds of the kidnappers. To think like them. To plan the next step, from their perspective. What would they do? It depended on the outcome of the interrogation. If they’d managed to extract the desired information from their captive, their logical next move would be to go and start searching for the loot.

  And if they hadn’t learned anything from Amal? What would they do then?

  Ben spent a few moments working out the answer to that question, and realised that maybe the kidnappers’ next move didn’t necessarily depend as much on the outcome of the interrogation as he’d first assumed. Because greed was the motivating factor here. And greed made people irrational, and impulsive, and desperate for short-term gain. Say that after twelve hours, or eighteen, or twenty-four, of tough questioning, the villains twigged that their hapless captive really didn’t know anything at all. Fine, bad break, but it wouldn’t lessen their overwhelming resolve to enrich themselves with whatever fortunes lay buried under the rocks and dirt twenty miles north of Rakhigarhi. It didn’t take away from what they already knew. Inevitably, their next move would be to think, ‘Fuck it’, as Ben had done many times himself, and head for the hills to try their luck whether Amal had come through for them or not. Who cared if they were just a bunch of amateurs armed with nothing more than shovels? Who cared if they didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of finding some three-thousand-year-old buried treasure in the middle of a vast rocky wilderness with nary a marker to go by? They’d still go for it anyway, because that was the kind of men they were.

  In short, if the bad guys hadn’t already made a bee line for Rakhigarhi, they soon would. And once they got there, hunting for the treasure wouldn’t be a quick in-out operation. It would take days, weeks. Or forever, possibly, since the chances of it even existing had to be fairly slim, and the probability of a gang of untrained thugs actually hitting the spot considerably slimmer still. If Ben wanted to find them, that was where he needed to go too.

  And that train of realisations now led him to consider a fresh possibility. What if he’d been too quick to assume that Amal was dead? Say Amal had indeed come through for them, and could help find the spot to start digging: wouldn’t they perhaps take him with them, as a kind of hostage-cum-guide-cum-forced-labourer? That would make sense. Even if Amal hadn’t come through for them and was useless as far as information was concerned, they might keep him alive simply as an extra pair of hands who could dig until he dropped. That made sense, too. Kind of.

  Ben wasn’t wildly optimistic, but he was willing to recalculate his previous near hundred per cent estimate of the probability of Amal being dead already to something south of ninety per cent, eighty-five at best. His chances of having survived this far really depended on how clever and forward-thinking the kidnappers were. Which, based on their track record up until now, was hardly reassuring. Maybe eighty-seven and a half per cent was a more realistic baseline.

  As for Kabir’s chances of still being alive, that was anyone’s guess.

  Ben had been sitting lost in his thoughts for some time. Haani broke the silence by asking, ‘What are you thinking?’

  Ben replied, ‘Do you know the exact location where Kabir and the others were searching?’

  Haani replied, ‘I don’t remember the exact coordinates, but I’ve seen the map and I know the lie of the land out there. I have a pretty good idea where to go.’

  ‘Then you can take me there,’ Ben said.

  Haani stared at him. ‘You can’t be serious. Take you there when? Right now?’

  Ben replied, ‘Tonight. I have some things to attend to and some sleep to catch up on. I’ll meet you here this evening. Be ready to leave immediately.’

  ‘How are we getting there?’

  ‘By car, as straight and fast and far as we can. Once the road runs out and we hit harder terrain, we may have to improvise alternative transport.’

  ‘You’re not giving me much choice, are you?’

  ‘You wanted to go treasure hunting. You missed out last time around. Now you’re getting a second chance. And bring the gun, too. If I’m right, we stand a good chance of meeting up with the bad guys there.’

  Haani thought about that, and seemed to be gradually warming to the idea. ‘You and me against the bad guys. A chance to get back at those murdering cowards.’ He rose from his chair, suddenly all fired up with fierce enthusiasm. ‘I have more guns, if they’re any use to us.’

  ‘They can’t hurt,’ Ben said. ‘Not us, at any rate.’

  ‘Come and see.’

  Ben followed him into the tiny bedroom, which smelled of unwashed sheets, stale socks and rising damp. A poster-sized photo of Haani playing kabaddi was tacked to the wall by the bed. His team wore green tops and white shorts, and the opposition were in red tops with yellow shorts. It looked like a critical moment in the match, and as if everyone was yelling at the top of their lungs. Haani was at the heart of the melee. The lens had caught him in mid-leap as he went to tag one of the enemy team, a look of intense determination on his face. The real-life Haani was wearing the same kind of expression as he skirted around the edge of the rumpled bed, crouched down by a cheap bedside cupboard unit and opened it to reveal a battered cubic metal safe, eighteen inches high, wide and deep, with a rotary combination on its front. ‘This is where I keep my stash,’ he explained.

  ‘You’re a regular armourer,’ Ben said.

  ‘My father left me his whole collection when he died. My mother wanted to sell them, but they were illegal, so finding a buyer was risky. And we couldn’t just throw them away. What if street kids found them and used them to commit crimes and hurt someone? In any case, they meant a lot to my father. So I kept them.’

  Ben watched as Haani turned the combination dials. It was a four-digit number that also happened to be a date, 1-9-7-2. He guessed it was probably the birth year of Haani’s father or mother. For Ben it marked the Battle of Mirbat, one of the SAS’s most legendary historic engagements when just a handful of troopers had resisted a large army of Communist insurgents in Oman, during another of those wars Britain was never officially involved in. Haani turned a handle and the safe door swung open with a creak. Inside nestled two more handguns, wrapped in oily cloths. Haani lifted them out and laid them on the bed and peeled away the cloths for Ben to see.

  ‘May I?’ Ben picked each up and inspected it in turn. The smaller of the two was a little .32 automatic made by the Indian arms company Ashani. A relatively piffling calibre, okay as a last-resort measure if your opponent was someone with thin skin and a delicate bone structure, standing three feet away and wearing nothing heavier than a light cotton T-shirt. The larger gun was more useful. Something of a relic from British colonial days, a big old Webley service revolver that looked as if it had seen action in both world wars and done a lot of police duty in-between. Battered and worn, nearly all the finish gone. But a gun was a gun, as long as it was still mechanically sound, and this one was. The old warhorse fired a slow, heavy .455 calibre bullet that had earned it a well-deserved reputation as a manstopper, back in the day. It would function just fine in trench mud and desert sand and was rugged enough to be used as a club if you had nothing else.

  Ben asked, ‘What about ammunition?’

  Haani pointed at the safe. ‘Box of fifty for the Ashani, about twice that many for the revolver. Plus a whole load of those military surplus nine-millimetre rounds for the Browning.’

  ‘Forget the .32,’ Ben said. ‘Lock everything up again for now, and have the Browning and the Webley packed and ready for when I come ba
ck later.’

  ‘What if the bad guys turn up in the meantime?’ Haani asked, suddenly worried. ‘I can’t close myself in here, because you smashed my door in.’

  Ben took out his wallet and peeled off a sheaf of cash. ‘I’m sorry about the door. This should cover the damages, and then some.’

  ‘It’ll take a week to get anyone in to fix it.’

  ‘Then go buy some nails and a hammer, and board yourself up.’

  ‘Great.’

  Ben said, ‘As it happens, I don’t think the bad guys will show up here. Why would they? They’ve already got what they want. But if it makes you feel better, you don’t have to stay in the apartment. Go for a walk. Blend into the crowds. Sit in a café. Take a scenic tour of the slums, admire the architecture. I’ll meet you outside the leaning apartment block at nine o’clock.’

  Just then, Ben’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

  Brooke was calling.

  Chapter 32

  She said, ‘Okay, I’m here at the hotel now.’

  ‘You were a long time at the house.’

  ‘I was saying goodbye to Esha. She was very sweet. Gave me a big hug, apologised for her husband’s behaviour and said she’d miss me. What have you been doing?’

  ‘Just keeping busy.’

  ‘You sound tired.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Something’s on your mind.’

  ‘When I get there. Where’s your hotel?’

  ‘It’s the Leela Palace, on Africa Avenue, close to the embassies.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Ben said, and ended the call. He said to Haani, ‘Don’t disappear on me, now, okay? I’ll be back in a few hours.’

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ Haani said. ‘Don’t you worry about me.’

  Ben left the apartment and trotted back down the stairs, past the blare of music and babies crying and people still arguing, and the old woman still peeking furtively from her doorway, and the dead dog still inert on the landing. He stepped outside into the choking fumes and heat, walked past the subsiding block that was still leaning at the same precarious angle, found the Jaguar miraculously unmolested where he’d left it, jumped in and reset his sat nav for the Leela Palace hotel.

  And if his head hadn’t been full of what Haani had just been telling him and the prospect of meeting up again with Brooke, he might have noticed the black car parked across the street and the four men inside, all watching him as he got into the Jag and drove off.

  The stink of the slums was still lingering in his nostrils by the time he’d cut back southwards across the city to Brooke’s hotel, which might as well have been on a different planet and made the Ray residence look like a modest suburban bungalow. Here was five-star luxury on a scale that very few residents of the sprawling urban mess could ever imagine, let alone experience. The hotel stood in lavish grounds that loomed majestically above the city and was, as far as Ben could tell, an actual palace. Or perhaps a luxury fortress might have been a better description. His way was blocked by security guys who wanted to see ID before they let him in. They were suspicious of his bag, and insisted on rummaging around inside to check for bombs and explosives. Content that he wasn’t a terrorist, they waved him through.

  The lobby was the size of an airport, with enormous smooth gleaming white stone columns rising up past galleried balconies to the decorative ceiling far overhead, and glittering crystal chandeliers, and marble-topped gilt rococo-style tables and tasteful couches draped with silk cushions. Ben made himself comfortable on one of the couches and called Brooke’s phone to say he’d arrived. Three minutes later she emerged from a lift and hurried across the vastness of the lobby to meet him, breaking into a happy smile. She looked more refreshed than earlier, and had changed into a green dress that brought out her eyes and hugged her figure, drawing looks from men as she walked. The outfit was probably expensive, but Brooke could have looked good in dungarees and a donkey jacket.

  Ben stood up as she reached him. She laid a warm hand on his, and rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Green shoes, matching the dress. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Nice little place you found for yourself,’ he said, motioning at the sumptuous décor all around.

  ‘Samarth’s paying for it. He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m charging the bill to Ray Enterprises.’

  ‘That’ll hurt.’

  ‘The price of not having me in his house. I could have been really hard on him and taken a top-floor suite. Those come with their own dedicated butler. But I compromised and went for what they call a Royal Premiere room instead.’

  ‘You always were the thrifty one,’ Ben said. He was just making conversation, and his voice sounded tight and strained like a person with unpleasant news to break and stalling like crazy. Which was exactly what he was.

  She took a step back and scrutinised him with concern. ‘You really do look exhausted. You haven’t stopped since you got off the plane. Which I appreciate more than I can say. But you need to rest.’

  He nodded. ‘A nap sounds good, if I could borrow the sofa in your Royal Premiere room for an hour or two.’

  ‘It does actually come with a bed.’

  ‘But first we need to talk. Is there a bar in this place?’

  ‘I think there are several, as well as five or six different restaurants.’

  ‘Let’s get a drink.’

  She frowned. ‘I was right. There is something on your mind. What’s up? What happened?’

  ‘Let’s get a drink,’ he repeated.

  They found their way to the library bar on the lobby level, which lived up to its name with handsome bookcases filled with an impressive collection of leather-bound classics. The décor was richly old world, all reds and browns, and had the ambiance of a London private members’ club. Acres of burnished wood panelling that gleamed subtly in the subdued light, parquet flooring as smooth as ice and magnificent wall hangings and art and sculptures giving the Eastern touch. You could almost forget the starving cripples and the rats and the disease-ridden filth of uptown. The library bar offered more than five hundred varieties of wine and champagne, 172 different single malt whiskies and a selection of the finest cigars. They passed on the cigars, but Ben took advantage of the hotel’s urbane smoking policy to fire up a Gauloise without having to shoot warning looks at anyone who tried to stop him. Brooke ordered a glass of chilled white wine for herself, a scotch for him. Single malt, naturally, double, no ice, no water. She knew his tastes and didn’t have to ask. Like the room, the bar tab was going to Ray Enterprises.

  The drinks came quickly. Ben snatched his glass off the gleaming counter and swallowed half of it down at a gulp. Brooke noticed, and gave him the frown again. ‘I get the feeling that you’re building up to telling me something. Something not good.’

  He said, ‘Come and sit down.’

  Her body posture stiffened up and she stood there rigidly still, staring at him. ‘It’s bad news. I can tell. You found him and he’s dead, and you’re trying to break it to me gently. I know you, Ben. I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ he said again.

  He gently took her elbow and led her across the luxurious room to a corner table. Time seemed to stand still here, as though nothing had ever changed. The pair of them could have been back in the colonial era. An officer and a gentleman escorting his elegant lady friend to her table for some civilised refreshments after an invigorating game of croquet in the hotel gardens.

  Except time didn’t stand still, and things did change, and not always for the better, and the real world wasn’t so civilised, and never had been. Ben sat facing the entrance with his back to the wall, and took another drink of whisky. Two old habits. One that made him feel a little more secure, while the other one just pretended.

  But you needed all the sense of security you could get at a time like this, when you were just about to tell the woman you secretly loved that there was an eighty-seven and a half per cent chance that she’d just become a widow, and that her husband�
��s corpse was lying somewhere in the city with its throat cut or its face shot off, buried in a shallow grave or dumped in a sewer or left to rot in some dingy slum or disused industrial space and never to be found.

  Brooke wasn’t touching her wine. Her face was as white and hard as the marble tabletop. Biting her lip. Eyes dry, back straight, hands neatly folded in her lap. Composed and ready to hear the worst.

  He said, ‘I didn’t find him.’

  ‘But he’s dead.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You haven’t said anything yet. Talk to me, Ben, for God’s sake.’

  And so he did.

  Chapter 33

  Ben laid out everything that had happened during their time apart. His encounter with the police, his conversation with Imran Gupta, the things he’d learned from Haani Bhandarkar and the decision to travel to Rakhigarhi that night. He was frank with her, and left nothing out. Brooke took in every word with concentration and remained silent the whole time he was talking. Her eyes were fixed downwards on the tabletop. Her face registered a whole range of suppressed emotions, a flicker of a cheek muscle here, a tightening of her jaw there. Now and then she reached for her wine glass and took a small sip. There were no more tears. Just a calm acceptance of the facts, as they stood.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Now you know everything I know.’

  ‘So, basically, in short, he might be alive,’ she said after a beat. Her voice was husky.

  ‘There’s a chance, Brooke. A real chance.’

  ‘But a considerably more real chance of the other. The stakes have gone up. It’s worse than we thought. You said so yourself.’