Алистер Маклин - Borrowed Time

‘It’s practically tailor-made for a man like him. High-risk, high-profit. The elements of disruption and sedition running alongside – they’re his mark, too.’ Mike nodded firmly. ‘I’d put money on it. Seaton’s our guy. Or he’s one of them. Catch him and we’re halfway to getting a handle on the big-bucks trade and wrecking it.’

A number of ideas had been formulated, talked over and discarded. One that kept coming up without really being rejected was that they use a team of police marksmen for cover and fire-power while they separate Seaton from his men. The plan had two areas of difficulty that tended to make it look like a non-starter: for one thing, police marksmen were in critically short supply in Srinagar; for another, it would take a helicopter to transport the team to the target area, and the local UN machine would not be available for three days at the earliest.

‘We could always try asking Commissioner Mantur,’ Mike said. ‘When he refuses we’ll at least know that road is completely shut off and we can stop considering it.’

On the third attempt Mike got through to the Commissioner. He explained the plan and the predicament, as he saw it.

‘Then let me tell it to you as I see it, Mr Graham,’ Mantur said. ‘It is not only numbers of men that I lack, but numbers of bullets for them to fire, on those rare occasions when they can put up a concerted show of belligerence against the villainy which envelopes us in these parts. As for transport, well you are right, you couldn’t expect us to provide that. However, perhaps there is another way of looking at all this.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘The various departments of the UN have provision in their budgeting for ad hoc ventures, am I not correct?’

‘Well yes, I believe so.’

‘Well why don’t you get in touch with your people and suggest an ad hoc assault on these bandits you are so keen to intercept, and talk over with them the matter of ad hoc finance.’

Mike thought about it.

‘OK, I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘What kind of figure should I mention?’

Mantur was silent for a moment. ‘In US dollars,’ he said finally, ‘if we are talking about the hire for half a day of ten marksmen, plus the hire, fuel and pilot fee for a helicopter, I think we would be talking in the region of fifteen thousand US dollars.’

Mike thought about it. ‘I can try,’ he said.

Philpott was not available. Mike spoke to C.W. Whitlock, who seemed preoccupied. ‘I need authorization to hire the marksmen and the helicopter,’ Mike pressed him. ‘Can you get it for me? This is just a tiny bit urgent.’

UNACO did not have a Deputy Director. All major decisions were taken by the Director; in his absence, decisions waited.

‘I don’t see what I can do, Mike,’ Whitlock said. ‘Anything over five thou has to be given the all-clear by Philpott.’

‘Try to get him, then.’

‘I can’t just–’

‘C.W., this is my chance to get my hands round the neck of Paul Seaton. Think about it. Call Philpott.’

Whitlock was silent for a moment. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

Mike went back to the planning table. ‘Just in case Uncle says no,’ he said, ‘can we bolt a decent alternative together?’

All the alternatives were hazardous and carried such a high possibility of disaster that they could scarcely be considered alternatives at all. Any way they angled it, they would be outnumbered and easily outflanked.

‘There’s still a probable gain in being outnumbered if the guys doing the outnumbering are everyday mercenaries,’ Mike said. ‘But I’m not going to be stupid enough to let a horde of hill bandits with a psychopath at their head outnumber me.’

‘Then you might lose Seaton,’ Lenny pointed out.

‘Don’t rub it in. Think of something else.’

The phone rang. It was Whitlock. ‘Go ahead,’ he told Mike.

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘No, I’m making it up because I secretly want to see you foul up and get blown out of the service.’

‘How come the old man agreed?’

‘He’s like me,’ Whitlock said. ‘He has other priorities right now. Be grateful for that. The confirmation will be faxed to you within the hour.’

Mike put down the phone and turned to the others. ‘We’re in business,’ he said, and couldn’t resist rubbing his hands together.

By late afternoon Amrit was beginning to understand how tough a man had to be in order to walk all over Kashmir wearing nothing on his feet but flimsy sandals. He was once or twice tempted to stop at a market and buy himself sports socks and a good pair of trainers. But he resisted. An impoverished mule, after all, would be used to going everywhere in sandals or bare feet, and when it came to spending any of his sudden fortune, he certainly wouldn’t lay it out on flippant non-essentials like decent footwear.

At a town called Muraka, Amrit decided he could stop and eat his evening meal. He thought of the food at his favourite Srinagar restaurant: plump grilled chicken, properly steamed vegetables and fluffy rice, washed down with a German beer. In Muraka he would have to settle for a good deal less, so he was grateful to be hungry enough, right then, to eat just about anything.

He found a dingy little café called The John Boy. All over India, there were these bars and hostelries named after characters from long-defunct American TV series. The bar two doors away from The John Boy was called Starsky’s Hutch.

At the counter he ordered an omelette and strong tea. He sat down at a table near the door and put the sack at his feet. He knew he mustn’t fall asleep, but in spite of himself he began to drowse.

He woke with a jump when he felt the sack move. A youth had sat down opposite. He was staring at Amrit, openly hostile, waiting to be asked why he was steadily kicking the sack.

Amrit sat up in his chair, seeing another youth just beyond his left shoulder. He leaned forward and put his arms on the table. He said nothing.

‘What’s in the bag?’ the youth opposite said.

‘Nothing that concerns you.’

‘I’ll ask you again.’ The foot stopped kicking the sack and kicked Amrit’s foot instead. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Same answer.’

‘I’ll have a look for myself, then.’

The youth put his head down to duck under the table. Amrit bunched his toes, brought up his foot and kicked him in the mouth. The youth roared and jerked back, banging his head on the metal table.

Amrit grabbed the pepper pot and was on his feet before the other one had a chance to react. He spun off the cap and threw a wad of pepper in the youth’s eyes. The youth screamed and dropped to the floor, clutching his face.

As the first one came up from under the table Amrit saw he had the sack in his hand. He ran for the door and by the time Amrit got there he had vanished.

Amrit leaned on the wall, thinking. He quashed an impulse to run around unfamiliar streets while his quarry simply disappeared.

He pushed himself away from the wall, went back into the café and grabbed the youth on the floor. He hoisted him to his feet by the hair, picked up a water carafe and threw the contents in his eyes.

‘There. Medicine. Now you’re all better. Tell me where your friend is or this time I’ll really blind you. And that’ll be for starters.’

The youth was hyperventilating, overwhelmed by pain, shock and fright. Amrit slapped him hard on both cheeks. When the youth tried to retaliate, Amrit tightened his grip on his hair, gathering it into his fingers, putting agonizing stress on the roots. The youth screamed once, loud and sharp.

‘One more time before I do you terrible harm. Where is your friend?’