Valley of Death

by Scott Mariani

  Chapter 49

  Then there was a lot of work to do. Samarth showed the way to the wine cellar, the access to which was down a couple of worn stone steps off a back kitchen in the west wing. He hadn’t been joking about the security. Old Basu Ray must have loved his wines, that was for sure.

  Samarth refused to speak to, even look at, his wife as Ben introduced her and Prem to their new temporary abode. Esha was crying so bitterly and Prem looked so ghastly that Ben almost felt sorry for them. Maybe it would be better just to shoot them. Or maybe not. He slammed the heavy iron door shut, threw the bolt and clicked the massive padlock, and left to attend to the next item on the agenda. Namely, to leave Samarth under Brooke’s supervision downstairs while he paid a visit to Kabir’s apartment on the second floor.

  The middle brother’s quarters weren’t what Ben would have expected of a young, wealthy, single guy who drove a red Ferrari and flew a helicopter. Kabir seemed to have lived like a student, and in place of designer décor and flashy boys’ toys had filled his apartment with collections of old artefacts from every century of Indian civilisation since the time of the Buddha. Barely an inch of wall space was left uncovered by historical prints and hangings. It was clear that his archaeology work had been his overriding interest in life.

  Just as it had turned out to be the indirect cause of his violent death.

  Ben was looking for a combination safe, probably not a big one. There was no sign of it in the living area. He cut through to the bedroom, which was where Brooke had said Kabir had stashed his pistol by the bedside, like Haani. And just like Haani, it turned out that Kabir had kept his precious things locked up near to him while he slept. The safe was similar in type to Haani’s, but shiny and expensive and probably ten times harder to break into. With no combination number, Ben could have been there for days trying to liberate its contents. Nor did he have a crowbar, which could have speeded things up considerably. But he did have a 10mm Colt Delta Elite. Only a millimetre bigger in bullet diameter than the time-honoured Browning Hi-Power, but it packed a lot more punch and could handle chamber pressures up to 37,500 pounds per square inch, not too far behind a .44 Magnum.

  It was a good thing that the house had no close neighbours. The gunshot was as loud as a quarry blasting charge. But the reward for Ben’s jangled eardrums was an open safe door. Inside he found two gold watches, a stack of money, and a collection of three old leather-bound journals that looked as though they’d spent the better part of two centuries rotting in a remote hill cave next to the cadaver of their former owner. Ben slipped off the elastic holding the three books together, carefully opened the cover of the top one and saw the faded name inscription.

  Marmaduke Trafford.

  This was it, no question. Haani’s description of the journals’ poor condition had been pretty accurate. Ben flipped through the rat-chewed, mildewy pages. Among Trafford’s faded yet neat cursive handwriting were many sketches of the things he’d seen on his extensive travels through nineteenth-century India. Ancient ruins. Fearsome tribesmen. Unusual flora and wildlife. The guy had been a true naturalist, a category of science now lost in history. And a keen linguist, judging by the pages and pages devoted to the Indus script-based language used by the remote mountain community who had saved his life and with whom he’d spent a winter, living as one of them. He’d also been a pretty capable amateur cartographer, and it was the maps Ben was most interested in.

  One map in particular. It showed the winding course of a river, and a variety of other topographical details like hills and valleys and escarpments, marked with old-fashioned geographical coordinates calculated with stars and compass. Folded between the pages was a much newer sheet of paper, a printout of a scan Kabir had made of the map with modern GPS location data superimposed over the originals. Ben would have other landmarks to orientate himself by, as well. Like whatever would be left of Kabir’s helicopter nearby, if the police hadn’t taken it away. And the presence of a band of armed bandits camped out in the vicinity, with their hostage in tow.

  If indeed their hostage was still alive. Amal’s continued survival was hanging by a very thin thread. The longer Ben was delayed in reaching Rakhigarhi, the worse those bad odds were going to get.

  He wrapped the journals back together with the elastic and replaced them in the safe, deciding he needed to take only the map printout with him. He refolded the paper and slipped it in his pocket, then left Kabir’s apartment and hurried back downstairs and went outside. The rains had left the night feeling cool and fresh, as though the downpour had washed all the soot and dust out of the air.

  Now that he had the map he needed transport. Something solid and robust that would eat up the miles between here and Rakhigarhi quickly and efficiently. Roomy enough on the inside to use as a mobile base camp, if needed. Tough enough on the outside to withstand a little punishment, should the situation require. The Ray family fleet offered him a selection to choose from. The Jag ticked most of the right boxes, as did Samarth’s Bentley. Kabir’s Ferrari ticked only one of them, namely the speed element, and was woefully inadequate for the rest. While Esha’s Fiat ticked none at all.

  But only one of the vehicles in the Ray family fleet was perfect for the job. Because none of the others had a twelve-cylinder twin-turbo engine making more than six hundred horsepower, wrapped inside an armoured shell capable of withstanding everything from small arms fire to grenade and bomb blasts to chemical weapons attacks. The ex-Presidential Mercedes-Benz Maybach S-Class Pullman limousine. A little ostentatious for Ben’s liking. But otherwise the nearest thing he was going to find to a hardened rapid assault vehicle without breaking into the nearest military facility.

  The fleet keys were all hung up on a fancy row of hooks above an antique stand in the front entrance hall. He snatched the one with the Mercedes-Benz star emblem on its leather fob. Map. Guns. Wheels. He was good to go. He had just one more thing to do before he got on his way.

  Brooke was still in Samarth’s apartment living room. She was sitting quietly on the Chesterfield settee Prem had been on before, gazing into the middle distance while Samarth paced up and down by the window at the far end of the large room, muttering to himself, hands clasped impatiently behind his back, deeply preoccupied with his own troubles.

  Ben lingered silently in the doorway for a moment, watching her. She was still and composed, back straight, hands resting on her knees. The soft amber light of the room accentuated the perfect curves of her brow and cheekbones, chin and neck. Lines he knew so well that he could have drawn them on paper. She looked beautiful, even though the emotional strain of all that had happened that night was clearly visible on her face. Ben was suddenly able to imagine what she’d look like ten or fifteen years from now. Or twenty, as the silver threads began to creep into the auburn of her hair. Years that they could have shared together, ageing gracefully and happily as a couple. The pain stabbed his heart.

  She seemed to sense his presence there, and turned her head to look at him with a brief, sad smile. He stepped into the room and walked over to where she sat. Samarth kept on pacing and muttering in the background, oblivious.

  Ben laid down his heavy bag and settled beside Brooke on the Chesterfield. The soft rich leather creaked and sank under his weight, so that they pressed together as close as lovers, thighs touching.

  ‘Time I was on my way,’ Ben said to her. ‘You going to be okay?’

  ‘Not as okay as I would have been, if you’d let me come with you.’

  ‘It’s better this way. Trust me.’

  ‘You could have used some help. We don’t even know how many of Takshak’s gang you’re up against.’

  ‘You’re helping plenty enough by keeping an eye on our prisoner here. And we do have a pretty good idea. Prem said about a dozen, call it thirteen with Takshak. Minus the rear guard he left behind to tidy up loose ends while the rest of them headed out of town. That’s four guys who won’t be rejoining him.’

  ‘Makes nine,’ Br
ooke said with a frown. ‘Against one.’

  He smiled. ‘See? Only nine. Out of which at least one will be tied up with guarding their hostage. That whittles it down to eight, maximum, all worn out from shovelling rocks if they’ve started digging by now, which you can be sure they will have. They’ll probably be working shifts, four of them sleeping while the other four will be too hard at it to see me coming. Their hands will be so blistered from all the heavy labour that they’ll hardly be able to pick up a weapon, even if they get the chance. Which they won’t.’

  ‘You’re only saying this to reassure me.’

  ‘Walk in the park,’ he said. ‘Nothing easier. Two of us going in would be a waste of resources.’

  She was still frowning. ‘It’s not working. I’m worried about you.’

  ‘Don’t be. Sit tight and I’ll be back before you know it. With your husband.’

  Brooke reached out and touched Ben’s arm. She said softly, ‘He’s not the only one I care about, Ben Hope. You know that, don’t you? I mean, I—’ She drew in a deep breath and it caught in her throat like a tiny shudder.

  Ben said nothing.

  ‘Don’t make me say it,’ she said.

  ‘It’s better if you don’t say it,’ he replied. ‘Same goes for me.’

  She nodded. Her green eyes gazed into his for the longest time. Her hand was still touching his arm.

  ‘You be safe, Ben,’ she said.

  ‘As houses,’ he replied.

  She looked as if she wanted to cry, but was gamely bottling it all up until after he was gone. He hesitated for a moment, then raised his hand to her face and stroked her cheek with his finger. It felt as soft as velvet. He kissed the top of her head.

  Then, without another word, he stood up and left.

  Back outside in the rain-washed coolness, he paused again to light a Gauloise. Closed his eyes, and saw her face there. Then he opened his eyes, took a deep breath of his own and walked to the limo and got inside and took off into the night.

  Chapter 50

  Ben’s route west out of Delhi was India’s National Highway 9, as flat and straight and wide and bland and featureless as any modern motorway in the world. Most of the night-time traffic consisted of lumbering freight trucks and monster tankers, interspersed here and there with late-hours delivery tuk-tuks puttering along so slowly by the feeble beams of their candle-glow lights that Ben passed them as though they were standing still. The Maybach wafted down the highway at 150 kilometres an hour, all five tons of it gliding as smoothly as a hovercraft riding a cushion of air while Ben lounged in the cream leather driver’s seat and guided the huge car with a toe on the gas and two fingers on the wheel.

  The limo had all the toys that a VIP traveller could possibly expect to enjoy within their air-conditioned, bulletproof bubble of serenity. The on-board navigation system was like something from the flight deck of a Boeing, while an inbuilt jammer served the purpose of protecting the occupants from RCIED, or radio-controlled improvised explosive device, attack. Just the thing when cruising the mean streets of Delhi. The Maybach was even wired to play internet radio, and after minimal fiddling with the controls Ben found a station that played uninterrupted jazz, no chit-chat, no adverts. Music heaven. To the mellow guitar sounds of Pat Martino he let the comfort of the car envelop him like a soft blanket, shoved his whirling thoughts to the back of his mind, lit another cigarette and watched the road zip by.

  He drove hard for two and a half hours and then pulled in at a truck stop to refuel and grab something to eat. About a hundred large trucks filled a floodlit waste ground off the highway. Many of them were ancient workhorses with serious mileages and worn tyres, personalised with colourful paint schemes and ornamentation and all kinds of cargo haphazardly lashed to their roofs and flatbeds. Some goats and a couple of cows lounged in the dirt nearby. You could probably do what you wanted to the goats, but this being India they’d hack you to death you if you laid a finger on the cows. The night air was full of the tang of diesel and hot engines and the more aromatic scents coming from a tin-roofed grill shack around which a crowd of hungry truckers were gathered. After refuelling the limo and getting a few strange looks, Ben wandered over to the shack, where three leathery guys who looked like they’d been working for a week without rest were busily preparing handmade breads, dals and meats cooked in stone wood-fired ovens and sizzled over glowing charcoal beds. He bought Tandoori chicken wrapped in a flatbread and took it back to eat in the car.

  He parked the limo on the beaten-earth waste ground behind the truck stop, surrounded by broken-down huts and mountains of junk and rusty oil drums and derelict vehicles. Swapping the driver’s cab for the relative vastness of the Pullman compartment he spent a few moments playing with the touch-sensitive switches on a control panel while his chicken dinner was still too hot to eat. The first switch activated the privacy blinds, shutting out the world. Another made one of the back seats elongate into a plush bed better than anything on a first-class flight. He flipped more switches, and other hidden compartments popped open to reveal various toys and gadgets essential to the convenience and security of a Presidential passenger. There was a stowable desk complete with mini-laptop, fountain pen and paper; there was a gas mask fitted with an oxygen cylinder, in case those nasty terrorist assassins managed to breach the car’s chemical warfare defences; and there was a satellite phone, presumably for making emergency calls when out of mobile range. The sat phone was made by Thuraya, based in UAE. Ben had once trained bodyguards for the company chief executive. He tossed the phone in his bag along with the rest of his stuff. Some gadgets were possibly worth holding onto, where he was headed.

  The last switch Ben flipped was the one he’d really been hoping to find. It whirred open a console between the seats, which housed a mini-bar complete with cut-crystal tumblers and a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan. ‘Now we’re talking,’ he murmured aloud.

  He sat on the soft bed and ate his Tandoori chicken, marinated in yogurt and spices and seasoned with cayenne, and as tender and delicious as anything the best restaurants of Delhi might have served up. Then he poured himself a generous measure of scotch, lit another cigarette and leaned back and smoked and savoured his drink and thought about what lay ahead of him. Tomorrow would be a long day. Perhaps a difficult one. He’d played that part down for Brooke’s sake. The reality might be rather more challenging than he’d let on.

  After a nightcap or two he turned off the lights, lay back on the bed, closed his eyes and slept.

  But not for long. Ninety minutes later Ben was back on the road again. Somewhere near the Haryana city of Hansi he left the NH9, still a long way south of his destination. He then cut back on himself, heading north-east as far as the city of Jind, then westwards again towards Mirchpur, which his smartphone told him was one of the Indus Valley sites overshadowed by the main site at Rakhigarhi. It was a sign that he was getting close; at which point he fished the map printout from his pocket and entered Kabir’s GPS coordinates into the Boeing flight deck sat nav system. The nineteenth-century explorer might have had to make do with his compass, but the wonders of technology would lead Ben to within a few metres of the exact spot he needed to be.

  From Mirchpur his route led him north-westwards towards the Rakhigarhi area, from where he bent his course due north, heading into remote countryside further and further from any kind of main road. The Maybach took the rough surface in its stride, only the smallest hint of vibration feeding back through the controls as the landscape ahead grew ever wilder. After spending so much time in the crowded, bustling environment of Delhi he had the distinct feeling of leaving civilisation far behind.

  The blood-hued glow of dawn found him carving a winding and solitary path deeper into a rocky, hilly landscape that had been harshly arid for thousands of years. Only a smattering of hardy vegetation survived here, now and then a stand of withered-looking trees. The topography reminded Ben of the parts of Afghanistan and Pakistan that he’d known, back
in the day. For the next solid hour he kept following Kabir’s GPS directions, the road growing rougher and rougher until it was a rubble-strewn track with deep ruts that swallowed up his wheels and raised jagged boulders that scraped and thumped against the armoured underside of the Maybach. It had definitely not been intended for off-road duty. Still, Ben figured that if the thing could withstand landmines, a few rocks couldn’t hurt. As long as the wheels kept turning and finding traction, that was good enough for him. The first farm or village he came to, he might consider trading it for a rusty Mitsubishi 4x4 or ratty truck more suited to the rough going.

  But no farms or villages came into view, mile after lurching, bouncing, grinding mile. He went on pushing the car mercilessly over the terrain like an injured tortoise. The orange sun climbed in the sky, and even cocooned inside the air-conditioned cabin Ben could sense it was going to be a hot day. According to the sat nav he was close now, only half an hour from his destination. The track was leading him onto a broad, sweeping plateau with barely any vegetation, where the ground sloped downwards to form a deep rocky V that seemed to stretch onwards forever.

  Ben ploughed on. The valley grew deeper and narrower until it was virtually a canyon. Rough-edged boulders that had tumbled down the slopes on either side overlaid ancient rocks smoothed to the sheen of marble by what he guessed had, once upon a time, been the course of a deep, fast-flowing river. The bottom of the river bed was his road now, forcing him to stick to its route. He could neither scramble up the banks to higher ground nor turn the long car around. The only way was straight on, if the ancient river’s twists and bends could ever be called straight.

  Twenty minutes later, Ben came to a spot where a long section of sloped river bank to his left had fallen away to create a sheer drop down into a lower valley, obviously the result of a major landslip, some indeterminate period of time in the past. Ben guessed that only something as powerful as an immense earthquake could have caused damage like that. It could have happened a hundred centuries ago, or last year. He was no geologist.