Алистер Маклин - Borrowed Time

This place looked safe. Sabrina had not stopped at any communities since crossing the border, but she guessed the bandits had as tight a grip on populations here as they had further south. The big difference was, this was open country. In the spaces between towns and villages she did not find herself on roads with blind corners or ominously close woodland or menacing overhangs. This was territory where she could see who was coming in any direction, and be ready for them.

A sharp rap on the window made her jump. Her first thought was, Thank God I kept the windows shut. It was possible to drive around all day with them closed: a concealed feature of the car, operated by a foot switch behind the brake pedal, was its air-conditioning unit, which kept the sealed-up interior at a steady 16 degrees Celsius.

Sabrina took a loose grip on the pistol tucked between the front seats. She turned her head slowly and looked.

‘Jeez …’

The man at the window looked horrible. He wore a voluminous yellow turban which emphasized the bony sparseness of his face, like a skull with eyes. His teeth protruded evilly, yellow and crooked, and as Sabrina stared at him his purple tongue snaked out and ran along his lips.

‘What do you want?’ she shouted, simultaneously thinking, so much for seeing them coming.

The man said something. She couldn’t hear. She watched his eyes go narrow. Her fingers tightened on the gun, her thumb eased off the safety. She looked to right and left. There was no sign of anybody else, but that went for nothing.

‘Speak up!’ she shouted.

The man’s expression changed. His eyes wrinkled at the corners and he made a helpless gesture with his hand. Now he didn’t look so menacing. Sabrina wound down the window a couple of inches, bringing the gun out from between the seats and letting it lie alongside her leg.

The first thing she noticed as the window came down was the scent of jasmine. The man was wearing cologne. She was so conditioned to bandits smelling bad that his scent disconcerted her.

‘You are English?’ he said. His voice was surprisingly soft, entirely lacking the harsh edge she expected.

‘American. How can I help you?’

‘First of all let me apologize for disturbing you,’ he said. ‘I do not make a practice of encroaching on privacy or solitude.’

‘Um, that’s OK.’

The man sounded like an actor, she thought. His voice was finely modulated; his one-handed gestures rhythmically underscored his words.

‘I thought it a duty, no less, to warn you that the rear left side light of your motor is broken.’

‘Oh.’ Sabrina felt deflated, and a little charmed. ‘Well thank you …’

‘My name is Aziz,’ the man said, making a little bow. ‘I am a teacher in the village three kilometres from here.’

‘Well, Aziz, I’ll have the light fixed first chance I get. Thanks again.’

As he stepped back Sabrina saw he leaned heavily on a walking stick. He nodded and began hobbling away. Sabrina considered her position for a moment, and decided her humanity needed more exercise than her caution.

‘Can I offer you a lift, Aziz?’

He stopped and turned. ‘That is most generous.’

‘Not at all.’ Sabrina opened the passenger door and slid the gun back down into its hiding place. ‘It won’t be the smoothest ride, I’m afraid. The suspension’s kind of stiff.’

She was surprised at herself. A minute ago she was reading a life of dissipation and crime into the old man’s appearance. Now as he clambered in beside her she saw nothing but frail gentility and kindly warmth in his eyes.

‘We’ll have you home in no time.’ She started up the engine. ‘Have you lived here all your life?’

‘For seventy-six of my seventy-seven years,’ Aziz said. ‘I am technically an outsider. My parents moved here to live when I was just over a year old.’

‘And you still work as a teacher?’

‘Oh yes.’ He grasped the handle above the door as the car pulled away. ‘Teaching children is my purpose, so I will do it until I drop.’

Sabrina looked across the scrubby open land to the east, noticing how it gradually sloped towards the foothills of the mountains.

‘Is life pretty quiet around here, Aziz?’

He nodded. ‘On the surface. And it is quiet enough for a man if he does not make himself prominent, you understand?’

‘What happens if he makes himself prominent?’

‘He attracts the attention of the bandits.’ Aziz pointed at the mountains. ‘There are many bandits up there.’

‘Really?’ Sabrina sat up in her seat. ‘Many of them, you say?’

‘Enough to make great trouble, when they choose.’

‘That’s fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.’ Sabrina hoped she looked like the intrigued tourist she was trying to be. ‘Do tell me more.’

‘If you don’t mind, Mr Graham, I’d like to get on with it,’ Amrit Datta said. ‘More rehearsal won’t do anything but make me less believable.’

‘It’s your call,’ Mike said. ‘But remember, you’ll be on your own. You’ll have to be good, there’s nobody to save you if you’re not.’

They were in the Drugwatch International office at Srinagar, a couple of shabby rooms fronting as a motorcycle courier agency; when prospective customers called, which they rarely did, there were never any couriers available. Mike stood by the window, looking out at the smoky traffic churning dust into the air. Amrit Datta sat on the edge of the plywood desk with his arms folded.

‘I know you’re concerned I’m rushing things,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think I am. In all the time I’ve been with this outfit, I’ve never once behaved like myself on the street. It’s always an act, I’m permanently behind a fake identity and a counterfeit personality. This is nothing new.’

‘The penalties in the mule racket are higher, that’s the difference,’ Mike said. ‘And there are precious few escape routes if things go wrong.’

‘I won’t forget that.’

Mike opened the package he had brought. ‘You’re on secondment to UNACO, so you get UNACO issue.’ He took a gun from the big brown envelope and handed it to Amrit, together with a box of ammunition. ‘SIG Sauer P230, your dearest pal if you get into a corner. Trust it more than the silly little Stenda you carry around.’

He pulled a greasy, worn brown leather wallet from the envelope and opened it flat on the table.

‘This is your history. They will look at it, whether you know it or not. And if your act’s a good one, this will corroborate it. The whole thing was put together by people who specialize in manufacturing identities.’

Inside the wallet was a picture of Amrit taken two days ago. Now it looked as if it had been behind the glassine window for a year at least. He was shown as part of a smiling group – a wife and three children, none of whom he had ever met. In a pocket of the wallet was a crumpled birth certificate identifying the owner as Opu Hikmet. Other documents – letters, a folded picture postcard, more snapshots – bulged the sides of the wallet, which had been sprayed with the authentic odour of artisan sweat.

‘Now this,’ Mike said, taking a chunky amulet from the bag, ‘is a very important piece of gear.’ He handed it to Amrit. ‘What do you make of it?’

Amrit hefted it, turned it over in his hands, shook it and finally took it to the window to examine it in full light.

‘It’s an oval disc, wooden, about four centimetres by two-point-five centimetres at its widest point, and maybe fifteen millimetres thick. It has a metal loop at one end with a thin leather cord through it, which I suppose is for hanging the disc around the neck. The disc is smooth on one face, on the other it is carved with a representation of the face of Narsingh, the man-lion incarnation of Vishnu.’ Amrit looked at Mike. ‘Did I miss anything?’