Valley of Death

by Scott Mariani

  They weren’t, and Prem’s smackdown was unimpeded. Because Samarth Ray was all alone inside the large, comfortable living room of his apartment. In the moments before the door crashed open, he had been reclining at his leisure in a deep buttoned-leather armchair with an open hardcover book in his lap and a tall iced drink on a pretty antique table at his elbow. He’d changed out of his business suit and was wearing casual chinos and a silk Paisley-pattern shirt with an elegant cravat. The criminal mastermind basking in peace and quiet after a hard day’s kidnapping, murder and extortion.

  As Ben had anticipated, the sudden appearance of his uninvited guests came as a complete surprise to Samarth. And if the guy was in any way armed, he made no attempt to reach for his weapon. After a second’s shocked pause he shot bolt upright from the leather armchair, sending his book tumbling to the floor, his face mottling purple and veins of anger standing out on his high forehead. He stared at Prem sprawled out bound and gagged on the Persian rug. Then at Ben in the smashed doorway. Then at Brooke, standing at Ben’s shoulder. Samarth yelled, ‘What is the meaning of this outrage?’

  Brooke forced her way past Ben and strode into the room, virtually trampling Prem. She yelled back, ‘You utter bastard! You piece of shit! What have you done?’

  Clair de Lune kept tinkling in the background, as if the pianist was too lost in the music to sense the disruption in the room. Ben remained in the doorway. He slipped the Browning back under his belt. He didn’t think he was going to need it, but he was ready.

  Samarth’s bewildered gaze scanned from Brooke to Ben, then back to Brooke. But like any seasoned boardroom combatant he was a man used to surprises and confrontation, and he seemed to recover his wits quickly and held his ground.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, or what you think you’re up to, bursting into my house like this. And what have you done to Prem? I’m calling the police!’

  There was an old-fashioned dial telephone on a leather-topped writing bureau in the corner of the room. Samarth started towards it, reaching for the receiver.

  Ben stepped into the room. He said, ‘Samarth.’

  Samarth stopped and turned to face him, the hand reaching for the phone hovering in mid-air.

  Ben said, ‘Sit down and stop messing around.’ The voice of command. The same tone he’d learned and perfected, back in the day, issuing orders that weren’t always entirely welcome, to men with supremely-developed skills, unbridled confidence and alpha-male egos to match. It had never failed Ben in those days, and it worked now. Samarth returned to his chair and sat down.

  Ben took another step into the room and said, ‘The indignant law-abiding citizen act won’t work for you, and you know it. The last thing you want is for the police to turn up here. Plus, if you try to pick up that phone again I’ll break your arm. Then if you try to grab it with the other hand, I’ll break that arm too. You see how this goes?’

  Samarth sat there simmering with anger. He didn’t try to get up or reach for the phone.

  ‘Sensible man,’ Ben said.

  ‘And you’re a man of violence.’

  ‘Where the occasion necessitates it.’

  ‘You believe this is one of those occasions?’

  ‘That’s up to you,’ Ben said. ‘Personally I’d prefer us to conduct ourselves in a civilised manner.’

  ‘I see. So you rough up my employee for reasons I’m yet to understand, then you barge uninvited into my home and threaten me with bodily injury if I try to call for help, and now you want to be civilised.’

  ‘The alternative would be markedly more unpleasant for you than for me,’ Ben said.

  ‘You leave me little choice, then. May I ask to what I owe this unexpected visit?’

  ‘We’re here to continue our conversation from earlier,’ Ben said. ‘In the light of recent developments.’ He walked up to Prem’s slumped form, snatched him up off the floor and deposited him on a Chesterfield settee that matched the armchair Samarth was sitting in. He yanked away the tape and cord binding Prem’s wrists.

  Samarth asked, ‘What developments?’

  ‘As if you didn’t bloody well know,’ Brooke seethed at him.

  Ben ripped away the tape covering Prem’s mouth. Then the tape covering his eyes. He did it fast, which was the less painful way, but still painful. Cruel to be kind. A bucket of cold water wouldn’t have woken Prem up any more quickly than having half his eyebrows and eyelashes stripped away. He sat up with a yelp, and rubbed his face, and looked around him blinking frantically as consciousness came back and he realised where he was. He didn’t seem too pleased about that, either.

  Ben said, ‘I’d like Prem to take part in the discussion, since he’s involved. But first I’m going to ask you one simple question, and I’d appreciate a quick and truthful answer. Where’s Amal?’

  ‘That’s right, Samarth,’ Brooke said tersely, folding her arms. The handbag hung heavily from her shoulder. She hadn’t forgotten what was in it. ‘Where is he?’

  Samarth stared at them both. ‘Is this some kind of sick joke? My brother was kidnapped. If I had the remotest idea where he had been held prisoner, don’t you think I would have used that information to get him back? If indeed he’s still alive, which I doubt. I think I’ve already made my feelings clear on that score.’

  ‘If he’s dead,’ Ben replied, ‘he hasn’t been that way long. No more than an hour or so.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because nobody else would drink such bad coffee,’ Ben said. ‘He was alive this evening, and he was definitely alive when we came to see you at your office earlier. I’m pretty certain he’s alive now. But then I think you know that. I think you knew it all along.’

  Samarth grimaced. ‘What are you trying to imply? That I had something to do with it?’

  ‘We’re not trying to imply it, Samarth,’ Brooke said. ‘We’re outright stating it as fact. You paid a bunch of thugs to kidnap your own brother, and you’ve been keeping him prisoner in the basement of one of your own construction projects. Your loyal manservant here has been managing the whole operation on your behalf.’

  Samarth exploded. ‘What? This is insane! It’s pure madness! You’re delusional!’

  ‘Sounds like a denial,’ Ben said. ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘Say it again,’ Brooke said. ‘Let me hear you shout your innocence. That’s all it’s going to take to make me blow your brains out.’ She reached into her handbag and took out the Webley revolver and pointed it in Samarth’s face. ‘I repeat. Your brother. My husband. Where is he?’

  Samarth held his arms out wide. ‘Why in God’s name would I have my own brother kidnapped? Prem? What are they talking about?’

  Prem didn’t reply. He was fully conscious now, sitting grimly like the accused waiting for a judge to pass the death sentence.

  Ben said, ‘Because the first attempt failed, obviously. Your hired guns messed up the job of snatching Kabir. As a result of which, he went MIA, presumed dead as far as anyone was concerned. So then you opted for Plan B, because you suspected that Amal knew something about all this.’

  ‘About all what?’ Samarth screamed.

  ‘About the lost Indus Valley treasure,’ Ben answered. ‘What’s the matter, Samarth? Business not going so well? Stocks down? Made some duff investments? Maybe that’s why the Ray Enterprises construction project we saw tonight has stalled, among other things. And why you made your wife sell her expensive car. The money troubles are obviously pretty bad.’

  ‘I didn’t make her sell her car.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Brooke snarled. She prodded him hard with the muzzle of the revolver.

  Ben continued, ‘Bad enough to make you justify that it’s okay to get both your younger brothers hurt, maybe even killed, so that you could somehow get your mitts on the loot. What made you hate them so much? Is it resentment against the fact that neither of them wanted to come on board the family business, and left you to run it alone? Or are you really j
ust a ruthless crook who was happy to take the money and put Amal and Kabir in the ground? And what if there is no money? What if this whole treasure thing is bullshit? What if it was all for nothing?’

  ‘Prem, say something!’ Samarth implored. ‘Tell them this is all wild fabrication. Tell them neither I nor you had anything to do with this.’

  Prem was silent.

  Brooke said, ‘Prem was there tonight. That’s where we found him. In the basement. In the building. Your building. With your fucking name on it. Right where you were holding Amal, until you moved him. Apparently Prem didn’t know that was happening. He’s been on the phone to your rent-a-thugs trying to find out more. You’ve obviously been holding out on him. Maybe because you knew that Ben’s here now, and that we’re gradually sniffing out the truth, and you were crapping your pants that we’d find him and the whole thing would come out. You couldn’t trust Prem, in case we got to him first. So where have you moved Amal?’

  Samarth stared at Prem. ‘Is what she’s saying true? You knew where Amal was being held? You were in touch with the kidnappers? I don’t believe it. I don’t understand.’

  Prem didn’t speak.

  Samarth asked him, ‘Why would you not have told me any of this?’

  Ben was looking at Samarth. Here was a guy who lived in the fast lane, wheeling and dealing and negotiating all day long. Shrewd, and sharp, and able to think on his feet like a master tactician. He could easily be stalling and bluffing like crazy while working out all kinds of ways to wriggle out of this situation, claiming innocence and acting as though he was just as shocked as Brooke had been by these revelations. But the acting part was key. Because if Samarth was putting on this compelling show of absolute sincerity, it would blow the greatest Oscar-winning performance of all time clear into the weeds. He should have gone into the movie business and become the most celebrated star of his generation, with scripts flooding in and leading directors banging on his door.

  And for that reason it was dawning on Ben that Samarth might not actually be acting at all. He might, conceivably, be actually telling the truth. While Prem wasn’t telling anything at all.

  And Prem was the second reason why Samarth’s protestations of innocence sounded so uncomfortably plausible. Because if Samarth had been guilty as charged, Prem’s very presence in the room would have constituted a massive risk for him. All Prem would have had to say was ‘Yes, he made me do it. I was only obeying my boss’s orders. How could I refuse such a powerful man?’ Knowing he was already in deep. Knowing that his only hope was to plea bargain his way to some kind of better deal. That would have been it. Cut and dried. Not a jury in the world would have failed to convict the obvious bad guy.

  And yet, Prem still hadn’t said a word.

  Therefore maybe things weren’t that cut and dried after all.

  Samarth said, ‘Prem, as your employer I order you to explain yourself, right this instant. Do you hear me?’

  Prem said nothing.

  ‘Brooke, give me that gun,’ Samarth said. ‘If he doesn’t want to talk, there are ways to make him.’

  She shook her head. ‘You must be nuts if you think I’d let you have this.’

  ‘You still don’t believe me? You think I hurt my brothers? My own flesh and blood? You think I would be capable of such a thing?’

  Brooke made no reply. Prem still wasn’t talking. Ben was watching the dynamic unfold. Scrutinising Samarth. Reading his expression. Certain now that there was much more to this than either he or Brooke had realised. That he was getting it completely wrong and had stormed into the home of an innocent man with guns and threats and accusations.

  A big mistake.

  Then another door opened, and everything changed.

  Chapter 46

  Everyone turned to look as a woman walked into the room. Ben had never seen her before. She was tall and elegant and attractive, closer in age to Prem than to Samarth, somewhere between mid and late thirties with just a few streaks of grey in her raven-black hair. She wore large loop earrings and a bright green top, with a saffron-coloured sari that flowed over one shoulder all the way to her feet. Which were bare, with rings on her toes. The long sari swished as she walked. There was something dignified, almost regal, about her. Though for all the poise and bearing with which she carried herself, there was a stiffness to her movements as though all the tension and sorrow in the world were locked inside her body, wanting to come bursting out.

  But what Ben noticed more than anything else was that her eyes were red and smudged from crying.

  Brooke’s hard expression instantly softened. ‘Esha!’

  Prem was staring at her. His mouth was hanging open and there was something aghast in his expression. Ben wasn’t yet sure why the sight of the lady of the house would make him react that way.

  Samarth frowned at his wife and blurted out, ‘How long have you been standing there?’ Without waiting for her to reply, he went on, ‘Have you been hearing what these lunatics are saying about us? And since when did I force you to sell that car? You told me it was too big and powerful for you to drive. Is everyone lying to me? Or am I going insane?’

  Esha Ray walked a few more steps into the room, and stopped, and gazed at her husband, then at Prem. Prem went on staring at her with the same expression. Eyes wide, as though imploring. Every muscle of his face drawn and tight. She held his look, and tears streamed down her cheeks. She said, ‘It’s no use, Prem. It’s over. They know.’

  Prem struggled to his feet, all in a flustered panic as if to prevent her from doing something terrible and irreversible. ‘No! They don’t know anything! Don’t tell them!’

  Which to Ben’s ears was the closest thing to an admission of guilt that he’d heard so far that night.

  ‘We have to do something,’ Esha Ray said. ‘For Amal. Before it’s too late. Before they …’ She pressed her hands to her face. Her fingers were long and slender, the nails varnished the same colour as her sari. Her shoulders gave a heave as she began sobbing again.

  Samarth made no move to embrace or comfort his wife. He was boggling incredulously at her. ‘What are you talking about, woman? What do or don’t we know? Before what’s too late?’

  Ben was interested in knowing the answer to that, too. For several long seconds there was total silence in the room, apart from the sound of Esha weeping. Prem’s fists were clenched tight and his face was cadaverous. Then through her tears, Esha Ray said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. None of this was ever meant to happen.’

  Ben looked at Brooke and saw the same baffled expression he could see on Samarth’s face, and must have been on his own. All five of them in the room were standing frozen, as though the moment had stunned them all into inertia. Ben broke the spell by taking four long steps towards Esha Ray. He reached for her hand. It was wet with tears. Gently, he led her towards the nearest armchair and helped her to sit. She was crying so hard that she couldn’t speak.

  Ben said, ‘I think it’s time for Prem to explain to us what this is about.’

  All eyes were on Prem, except Esha’s. He was breathing hard, fists still balled at his sides. His head sank until his chin touched his chest.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t meant to happen this way. None of it was. And here we are. It’s all gone to shit. What does it matter now?’ He gave a bitter laugh.

  Ben watched him for a moment, then turned to watch Esha, then back at Prem. The two of them looked like a couple of rueful children caught in the act of doing something bad and now having to face the music. Except they weren’t children. Ben was beginning to understand. So, judging from the look in her eyes, was Brooke.

  ‘How long has it been going on?’ he said.

  Samarth still hadn’t got it. Which, Ben thought, seemed to fit the picture. Evidently, some things were just taken for granted. Such as a wife’s undying love and devotion, and the durability of a neglected marriage.

  Samarth said, ‘How long has what been going on? Well? Isn’t anyo
ne going to explain?’

  ‘You’re so blind, Samarth,’ Brooke said. ‘They’ve been having an affair.’

  Samarth gaped at his wife, still weeping where she sat. Then across at his loyal employee. His face darkened. ‘It’s impossible. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘You’d have found out soon enough,’ Ben said. ‘When the star-crossed lovers ran away together and left you in the lurch. That is, if their plan had worked out. Didn’t quite happen that way, did it, Prem?’

  ‘What were we supposed to do?’ Prem muttered. ‘We wanted to set up a home together, as far away from here as possible, but with what?’ He thrust an accusing finger in Samarth’s direction. ‘He wouldn’t have given her a penny. That tight-arsed bastard would rather see her starve than let her be happy.’

  ‘And you were going to make her happy,’ Ben said. ‘With a scheme to filch a few rupees to start your cosy new life together. Or maybe a few hundred million. Or so you hoped. It must have seemed like serendipity when you overheard Kabir talking on the phone to his brother in London. Listening at doors is very bad, Prem. Or were you actually tapping the line? Because I can’t think how else you could have found out.’

  Samarth slumped in a chair, looking as though he’d been gut-punched. He barely glanced at his wife. No ‘Please, Esha, I love you’; no ‘Darling, where did I go wrong? I thought we were so happy together.’ Not even a ‘Who are you calling a tight-arsed bastard?’ He started fumbling to loosen his silk necktie and muttered, ‘I think I’m having a heart attack. You had better call me an ambulance.’

  Brooke snapped at him, ‘Sit still and shut up.’

  ‘I just happened to be nearby,’ Prem confessed. There was no point in hiding anything now. ‘The door was open a crack. It was the mention of money that got me listening. They were talking millions, billions.’

  ‘I suppose you pictured heaps of iron casks filled with gold and diamonds, just sitting waiting to be loaded onto trucks and brought home, easy as pie,’ Ben said. ‘Like something out of a movie. I’ll bet you were so excited, you didn’t stop once to ask yourself what Kabir had actually discovered, or how close he was to getting it out of the ground.’