Алистер Маклин - Borrowed Time

‘So if there was a black market operation at the farm a month ago–’

‘It’s highly likely it’s moved on. Black marketeers rent places on very short leases, Mr Philpott.’

‘Please don’t tell me any more,’ Philpott said. ‘If you do, I’m likely to get too depressed to finish my lunch.’

Later that afternoon Philpott called C.W. Whitlock in New York. Whitlock already knew about Lenny Trent and confirmed that the body was being returned to the United States. Philpott told him about the misunderstanding over the farm.

‘I have a feeling the whole black market trade over here needs a thorough, detailed analysis before any offensive is even considered.’

‘Don’t let it get you down,’ Whitlock said. ‘It wasn’t your only reason for going out there anyway, was it?’

‘I suppose not. But I’ve been thinking, I could come back now and defend myself at that damned hearing.’

‘No, don’t do that.’ Whitlock spoke a little too quickly. ‘I’d rather do the defending.’

‘But surely, if I’m there in person–’

‘Take my word for it, sir, it would be better if you stay right where you are. The presentation of our case calls for a dispassionate approach …’

‘And you don’t think I have that?’

‘I just think you should leave it to me.’

Eighty kilometres south of Srinagar the Ford began to cough. Mike gunned the engine, hoping to clear an obstruction in the fuel line, but that made the plugs misfire and finally the engine stopped.

‘Terrific.’

He got out, opened the bonnet and stared. Sabrina came round beside him. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think I don’t know a thing about these engines.’

He slammed down the bonnet.

‘It sounded to me like it was dying,’ Sabrina said.

‘You’re really into hi-tech talk, aren’t you?’

‘Seriously, I mean. I was in a cab in Beirut once when it made that noise. The driver couldn’t revive it. The engine had been repaired and patched so many times, it was some kind of miracle of spare-part surgery. But that was the end of the line, there was no saving it. And it sounded just like our engine did a couple of minutes ago.’

Mike tried to start it again, but now the starter motor wouldn’t turn over.

‘So we walk,’ he said.

Where the truck stalled the road had begun to rise. As they walked they found it rose in a gentle gradient for another five kilometres.

‘It’s levelling out,’ Sabrina panted, trudging behind Mike, taking advantage of his shadow.

‘I don’t feel any difference.’

‘I do.’ Sabrina stopped and wiped the dust from her lips. ‘And hey, look at that.’

She pointed down to their right. Since they had begun walking there had been only trees and bushes on the lower ground. Now they were looking at a road. Fifty metres ahead it veered away to the right.

‘There’s a signpost where it turns.’ Mike shielded his eyes and narrowed them. ‘I think it says Srinagar.’

They scrambled down the slope and on to the road. Sabrina took a closer look at the sign.

‘Ten kilometres. We’re nearly there.’

‘If the truck hadn’t broken down,’ Mike said, ‘we’d have missed this road completely.’

‘That’s the way to talk. Keep making us look lucky.’

Mike made to grab Sabrina. She skipped ahead of him and ran along the road. He ran after her, then they both stopped as a station wagon came round a corner sixty metres ahead and roared towards them.

Mike and Sabrina went to the side of the road. They could see the driver was an Indian, big and broad. Behind him sat an Indian woman, her lower face obscured by a veil. She was surrounded by piles of cardboard boxes.

‘That guy doesn’t look pleased to see us,’ Mike said.

The driver was glaring at them, his mouth moving. He braked the car and it slid to a crunching stop in a cloud of dust. He got out, still looking angry, muttering to himself.

‘Hi there,’ Mike said, then jerked back as the driver pulled a gun.

‘Down!’ Sabrina yelled. Mike was flat on the ground already. She landed beside him as the man fired twice, hitting the road inches in front of them.

‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Mike shouted. ‘Put away the gun, you idiot!’

The man fired again. Mike pulled the Webley .38 from his belt, aiming the gun as it moved. He fired two shots. The first bullet entered the man’s head, the second penetrated his chest. He spluttered and coughed, clutching his chest as blood streamed into his eyes. He dropped to his knees, then fell over on his back.

As Mike and Sabrina stood up, the woman in the back of the car dived into the driver’s seat. She put the big wagon into a screeching turn and roared off.

Mike looked down at the dead man. ‘Why do you suppose he fired at us?’

‘Maybe he didn’t want us to see him and live to talk about it.’

Mike went on staring. ‘I’ve seen him before,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘No idea.’ Mike stooped and felt in the man’s pockets. They were empty. He stood up again. ‘I’ve seen the woman before, too.’

‘You could only see her eyes.’

‘Sure. But they’re unforgettable eyes.’ Mike shrugged. ‘It’ll come to me.’

‘If this works,’ Philpott said to Ram Jarwal, ‘I’ll feel measurably redeemed.’

They sat in Ram’s jeep, watching the little cottage at the centre of the farm. They had been there fifteen minutes and there had been no sign of activity. They were sure someone was inside, because they had been careful to arrive before dusk, and when it began to turn dark, lights went on in the cottage.

Ram looked at his watch. ‘Shall we do it now?’

‘I’m ready if you are.’

They got out of the vehicle and walked to the gate. There was a bell-push suspended at the end of a heavy electric cable. Ram jabbed it three times.

‘Was that imperious enough?’ he said.

‘Perfect.’

The cottage door opened and an old man came out. Philpott recognized the stoop and the jerky movements; it was the man he had seen the night before, talking to the younger man at the table. The man came to the gate, moving carefully, shining a torch ahead of him. At the gate he stopped and shone the torch first on Philpott, then on Ram. He said something in Kashmiri, then in Urdu.

‘Do you speak English?’ Ram said.

‘Well of course.’ The linguistic switch from East to West also produced a lightening of the voice. The old man sounded like a different person. ‘What can I do for you, please?’

‘We are from the Central Government office in Jammu,’ Ram said, keeping his voice smooth, with a firm authoritarian edge. ‘May we come inside?’

The man appeared to consider it. ‘Very well.’

He unpadlocked a smaller gate within one of the main gates and they stepped through.

‘I am Dr Vyas, by the way.’

Ram looked quickly at Philpott. The last thing they had expected was a doctor, even a fake one.

‘I am Annat Dishu,’ Ram said, his delivery calm and plausible, ‘and this is Mr Pilkington of our Bombay liaison office.’

When they were inside, Ram declined a chair and so did Philpott.

‘You will excuse me if I sit,’ Vyas said. ‘My legs are no longer what they were.’ He eased himself down into an old armchair, dabbing at one eye which seemed to be permanently watering. ‘Now, gentlemen, how can I help you?’

‘Perhaps you would care to tell us about yourself first,’ Ram said. His manner was more aggressive now. ‘I would advise you to leave out nothing that you consider to be important.’

‘My name as I told you is Vyas, Jabar Vyas. I hold a PhD degree from the University of New Delhi. My speciality is botany.’