Valley of Death

by Scott Mariani

  ‘Very weird,’ he agreed.

  Ben walked over to the bed and pulled back the sheet. It was crisp and clean, and free of any bloodstains that could indicate rough treatment of the prisoner. Meanwhile, Brooke had spotted a pile of clothing on the floor. She rushed over to sift through them, and picked up a rumpled T-shirt with a philosophy quote across the front that said, ‘Don’t walk in front of me, I may not follow; Don’t walk behind me, I may not lead; Just walk beside me and be my friend.’

  ‘It’s Amal’s,’ Brooke said. ‘His Albert Camus shirt. I bought it for him. He was wearing it the night he was taken.’ She dropped the T-shirt back on the floor and examined a light blazer jacket. ‘This is his, too. And these are his jeans and underwear. What’s he wearing?’

  ‘If they gave him clean sheets, maybe they gave him a fresh change of clothes, too.’

  ‘Kidnappers don’t do that,’ she said. ‘Do they?’

  ‘Not in my experience.’

  Ben turned to the cheap table and picked up the plastic cup. It still had half an inch of light brown dregs in it. He sniffed. Coffee. Or what passed for coffee among the unenlightened. He took a small sip. Weak decaf, polluted by long-life milk and sugary sludge at the bottom. Revolting. And cold. But not that cold.

  He said, ‘How does Amal take his decaf?’

  ‘Not too strong, lots of milk, lots of sugar.’

  Ben put down the cup. ‘Still slightly lukewarm. Meaning he was here not long ago. Prem wasn’t lying about that part. Someone snatched him and took him away. And in a hurry. They left a load of provisions behind upstairs. I suppose they’ll pick up more en route.’

  ‘En route to where?’

  ‘If I’m right, out of the city. Heading roughly east, about a hundred and fifty kilometres.’

  ‘Wake that bastard up and make him tell us. Torture him if you have to.’

  ‘I don’t think he knows the full picture, Brooke. He seemed pretty shocked that Amal was gone. That’s what this whole Takshak thing is about. Looks like someone turned the tables. Prem rushed over here the way he did because he was hoping to stop them. But he was too late.’

  ‘You mean someone else has kidnapped him now?’

  ‘Or someone cut our boy Prem out of the loop.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Ben said. But he was lying.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘You wait here.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ Ben said. ‘If he wakes up and tries to misbehave, knock him over the head again.’

  ‘Gladly.’

  Ben ran back up the steps and headed up the corridor to the room they’d passed on their way. Now he knew for sure what the room had been used for, while Amal was still being kept prisoner in the sub-basement. Even kidnappers need a place to rest, unwind, eat and drink.

  The room was still empty, as expected. He went over to the box in the corner and grabbed the roll of duct tape and a length of paracord. Tools of the kidnapper’s trade. Two could play at that game.

  Prem hadn’t woken up by the time Ben returned to the holding cell. He flipped him over onto his belly and bound his wrists behind his back with the cord, then wound a length of tape around them to make the bond so strong a gorilla couldn’t have broken free. Next, he flipped the unconscious body back over face-up, tore two more strips of tape from the roll and pressed one over his mouth, the other over his closed eyes.

  Brooke said, ‘What about his ankles? He can still walk, when he wakes up.’

  ‘That’s the idea. Then I won’t have to carry him back up all those stairs.’

  ‘Where are we taking him? Not back to the hotel, surely?’

  ‘No,’ Ben replied, ‘we’re taking him home to the house. It’s time for a conference with the family, or what’s left of it.’

  Brooke stared at him with eyes full of confusion. She wasn’t stupid. Far from it. She was one of the two smartest women Ben had ever known, the other being Roberta Ryder. But the implications of what was unravelling here in front of them went so deep and were so troubling that even a mind as sharp and incisive as hers was balking at the inevitable conclusions to be drawn. ‘I think I’m understanding what you’re saying. I’m just not sure that I want to.’

  ‘Whoever took Amal knew him pretty well,’ Ben said. ‘That’s for sure. How else would they have been familiar with small personal details, right down to how he takes his coffee?’ He pointed upwards. ‘And those hidden speakers in the ceiling are telling us the same thing, just in a different way. They can only have been put there for one purpose, which was to enable the kidnappers to talk to their prisoner incognito. Or interrogate him, more to the point. They probably used some device to disguise their voice, for the same reason. But why go to such lengths to set all that up, when they could just walk into the room and question him face to face?’

  ‘Because he’d recognise them,’ Brooke said grimly. Getting it now.

  Ben nodded. ‘And a mask wouldn’t do it. It’s not enough just to hide your face. Not when your prisoner is someone who’s known you all their life. Literally.’

  Brooke’s face tightened. She pursed her lips. The inevitable conclusion had focused to a pinpoint in her mind and there was no longer any dodging it. ‘Samarth.’

  ‘It’s more than just supposition, Brooke. This is his building. Prem works for him. If that doesn’t constitute hard evidence of involvement in this thing, you’d better explain it to me.’

  Brooke shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I’m dreaming. This isn’t happening. Are we saying that Samarth—? But why would he do that? His own brother?’

  ‘Both of his brothers,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s not forget about Kabir. Not to mention that three other innocent men have died over this.’

  ‘I don’t get it. He was worried about Amal recognising him. Which sort of suggests he didn’t intend him any harm. Dead men don’t talk, do they? And he’s providing coffee, and a decent bed, and private toilet facilities, and even a bloody toothbrush and toothpaste, but meanwhile he’s running around killing people, including his other brother? There’s no logical pattern to it.’

  ‘I know,’ Ben said. ‘It doesn’t make sense to me either.’

  At that moment Prem made a loud groan from behind the tape over his mouth. A second later he started violently as he woke up to find himself bound, gagged and blind. He thrashed and writhed on the floor, wriggling his legs like a man running on the spot. Brooke stepped back to avoid getting kicked. Ben reached down, grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and hauled him roughly to his feet. ‘Come on, matey boy, time to go home.’

  Brooke said, ‘Shit. I just remembered I gave Esha back my remote for the driveway gates.’

  ‘No problem.’ Ben held the struggling, moaning, groaning Prem steady with one hand and patted him down with the other until he found the guy’s own remote in his jeans pocket, along with a ring of house keys and another little blipper for deactivating the alarm.

  ‘Each gate remote uses a different access code,’ Brooke said. ‘We’ll have to beat the number out of him.’

  Ben looked at her. ‘I understand your desire to slap him around, but I already know the code.’

  ‘Pity,’ she said.

  They bundled their prisoner out of the kidnap holding cell and shoved and dragged and prodded and frogmarched him all the way back up the corridor, up the stairs, through the empty shell of the building and outside into the night.

  Prem’s Audi still had the keys in it. Brooke asked, ‘What about his car? If the police find it, they might start poking around. Is that what we want?’

  ‘I doubt it’ll stay in place long enough for the police to find,’ Ben said. He hauled and shoved Prem across the rubble-strewn waste ground to the Jaguar. Opened up the rear hatch, backed Prem up until the backs of his legs were pressed against the lower sill, then tipped him into the large boot space and folded him up and slammed the lid. Brooke got in the p
assenger seat. Ben took the wheel. He reset the sat nav destination to the Ray residence.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  Ben fired up the engine, slammed the Jag into drive and took off. A crazy night was about to get crazier.

  Chapter 44

  On the way to the house, Ben reached in his pocket for the phone Prem had been talking on, and gave it to Brooke to check over. The other phones they’d taken that night had been of the cheap and cheerful prepaid variety, untraceable and disposable. By contrast, Prem had been using his personal iPhone to converse with his criminal associates. Brooke scrolled through the call records and quickly found the numbers Prem had either been in contact with or dialled without getting through to.

  ‘It’s Takshak we’re interested in,’ Ben said. ‘The last person to call him, except us.’

  ‘I’ll try the number.’ Brooke plugged the iPhone into the car audio system the way she’d done earlier, found the number and then hit redial. The tones sounded deep and rich through the Jaguar’s speakers. And went on, and on, until the generic voice message kicked in to say that the person they were calling was not available.

  ‘He’s turned off his phone,’ she said. ‘And probably junked or destroyed it by now.’

  ‘As any self-respecting real criminal would,’ Ben said. ‘Unlike our boy here. He’s more than a little out of his depth dealing with these people, even as an intermediary.’

  ‘That doesn’t tell us much about who they are. Apart from the fact that they have Amal. Jesus. This keeps getting worse.’

  Ben said, ‘As we both know, most kidnap victims don’t get a bed with a real mattress, and their own private bathroom. They don’t generally get a say in how their coffee gets made, either.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So if they’ve taken measures to treat him okay, it means he’s worth something to them. Which means they aim to keep him alive, healthy and in good condition. That’s something to bear in mind.’

  ‘And if he suddenly turns out to be less use to them?’

  ‘It won’t matter by then. Because we’ll be closing in. Or we’ll already have him.’

  ‘You hope.’

  ‘There’s always hope,’ he said.

  ‘And you’re my best,’ she replied after a beat. ‘You always were.’

  Ben said nothing.

  Before too long they were approaching the wealthy suburb where the Rays lived. Prem must have sensed they were getting close to home, which meant his moment of reckoning was drawing near. He was becoming restless in the back, and they could hear the thumps and muffled groans of protest coming from under the flimsy rear parcel shelf. ‘This is why I hate hatchbacks,’ Ben said. ‘Give me a proper boot any day.’

  ‘We can’t get through the security checkpoint with him making all that racket back there,’ Brooke said.

  ‘You’re absolutely right.’ Ben checked his mirror, pulled over to the kerb and stepped out of the car. He waited for a passing car to come hissing by on the wet road, then walked round to the rear, opened the hatch, and tapped Prem on the skull a couple more times with the butt of his own Delta Elite to send him back to sleep for a while.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ he said as he got back in and they set off again.

  The checkpoint guards were full of all the usual smiles and charm towards Brooke. They were all so used to Ben’s face now that they barely registered his presence at the wheel. Just another lackey working for the Rays, no doubt. Or maybe a bit of rough for the rich and beautiful Mrs Ray. Lots there for them to speculate and fantasise about. But definitely not a person of suspicion. As for the third occupant of the car, he attracted even less notice. The guards waved them through.

  Minutes later, they were pulling up outside the closed gates of the Ray residence driveway. Ben took out Prem’s remote, pointed it through the windscreen and keyed in the number sequence 4-1-9-8. Tuesday Fletcher’s favourite IMR smokeless powder formulation. The gates automatically unlocked and began to whirr open to let them pass. Ben crunched slowly up the driveway towards the house.

  ‘How do we do this?’ Brooke asked anxiously.

  ‘The simplest plans are the best. Let me scout the place first. One minute, to check the terrain and make sure we’re good to go. All being well, we get inside, then you lead the way to Samarth and Esha’s apartment. Then you get behind me, then we make our entrance. I need to know about domestic staff. Is there anyone else we’re liable to bump into in there?’

  ‘There’s the cook, Inu, but she only comes in for a few hours a day. Chandni does the cleaning, usually mornings or afternoons. And there are a couple of groundskeepers. Nobody lives in.’

  ‘All the better,’ Ben said. ‘In case we create a disturbance.’

  ‘What kind of disturbance? You think Samarth is armed in there?’

  ‘There’s a lot we apparently don’t know about Samarth. Therefore, for the sake of precaution, we should apply the golden rule.’

  ‘What’s the golden rule?’

  ‘Speed, surprise and violence of action. The more of all three, the better.’

  Ben put the stick in neutral and killed the engine and lights before they rounded the last bend in the driveway, and let the car coast silently up to the house. A few windows were lit up in the ground-floor west wing at the far side of the property, but the place was mostly in darkness as though winding down for the evening. That was good. All the signs seemed to suggest that nobody was expecting company.

  Ben halted the car thirty yards from the entrance and slipped out first. He stalked as quietly as a ghost across to the garage block, let himself in and checked the cars. On the way over, he’d been considering the possibility that Samarth might be working late at the office that night. But his concern was proved unfounded when he saw Samarth’s silver Bentley Arnage parked in its space next to Esha Ray’s little yellow Fiat. The bonnet was cool. That was good, too. It meant Samarth had been back home long enough to shower, change out of his office clothes, and get nice and relaxed. Maybe a glass or two of something to soothe away the stresses of the day. Ben wanted the guy as chilled out and blissfully unsuspecting as possible. Especially if there was a home defence weapon in the equation.

  He slipped back to the Jaguar. Brooke had got out and was waiting for him. Ben quietly opened the rear hatch. Prem was still completely out for the count inside, which meant he’d have to be bodily carried. Ben leaned down, pressed a shoulder into Prem’s side and flipped him up and over in a fireman’s lift. Prem wasn’t anywhere near as heavy as a fully-kitted-out SAS trooper injured in battle.

  They cautiously approached the entrance. No security lights blazed into life, no hidden cameras or motion sensors gave them away as they approached the front entrance. Ben passed the ring of house keys to Brooke, holding them tight so they wouldn’t jangle. She used the blipper to deactivate the burglar alarm, then found the right key and let them inside.

  So far, so according to plan. Ben whispered, ‘Lead on.’

  Brooke whispered back, ‘What if he’s got a whole gang in there with him?’

  Ben smiled. ‘It wouldn’t be enough.’

  The Ray residence had seemed big during the day, but at night it appeared to go on forever as Brooke led the way left and right through endless shadowy hallways and corridors, Ben following with Prem’s dead weight dangling like an army kit bag full of laundry over his shoulder. He had to be careful not to let the guy’s dangling feet knock over a lamp or ornament, crashing it to the floor and signalling the presence of intruders. Though, technically speaking, they’d let themselves in using a key and without breaking anything, and two out of three of them either lived in the house or had done until recently, with the third having been invited as a guest – and so Ben wasn’t sure if the term ‘intruders’ truly applied. But he was just as sure that Samarth wouldn’t see it that way.

  At last, Brooke halted at the interior door of the west wing apartment where Samarth and Esha lived. She turned to
Ben and pointed, then stepped back as if to say, ‘Over to you.’

  As quietly as a comatose body can be dumped on a solid marble floor in a large, high-ceilinged hallway with naturally reverberating acoustics, Ben let Prem’s weight down from his shoulder. He stepped close to the door, listening. No voices from inside. Just the soft tinkle of pleasant piano music in the background. More modern than classical, from the post-Romantic period. Ben was a jazz person by taste, but he recognised the piece. Claude Debussy, Clair de Lune from his Suite bergamasque. If Samarth was in there with a whole gathering of hired thugs around him, they were enjoying a quiet evening of refined cultural pursuits together. Which seemed an unlikely scenario, but there was only one way to find out.

  He took a step away from the door. Glanced at Brooke. She nodded, her eyes gleaming anxiously in the darkness. He nodded back. Reached down and grabbed a handful of Prem’s jacket collar. Then took a breath, drew the Browning from his belt, thought fuck it and rocked back on his heel and gathered his strength and kicked the door in.

  Chapter 45

  Speed, surprise and violence of action. The more of all three, the better.

  The door frame was a far more solid and chunky affair than the one Ben had destroyed at Haani’s place earlier that day. But it couldn’t put up enough resistance to prevent itself from crashing open with a noise like a grenade bursting. Splinters flew. Soft amber light from inside the room spilled into the hallway. Ben jerked the unconscious Prem as upright as his floppy legs would support him, and sent the guy sprawling headlong through the open doorway. If a dozen armed thugs had been behind the door ready to open fire on whatever came through it, Prem would have been riddled with bullets before he smacked face-first into the Persian rug.