Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

Her captor’s partner dropped her suitcase in the back seat and disappeared into the house, emerging a few moments later with a red-faced Englishman in civilian clothes. In their wake a posse of outraged Indian men were protesting the breaking of purdah with shaking fists and shouts of defiance.

Without looking back the Englishman flicked a hand at them, a gesture of dismissal that Nero might have practiced.

“Where’s Jack McColl?” he barked at her.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“When did he go out?”

“He didn’t. He’s been staying somewhere else,” she added, hoping it would help Harry.

“Where?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That’s your privilege.”

He took her upper arm in a tight grip, walked her across to the open car, and told her to get in. She did as she was told. Kicking the overgrown schoolboy might make for a few joyful seconds but probably wouldn’t be wise.

McColl arrived at the endof Sinha’s street at the same time as the car. He took in the scene in an instant: the pedestrians and slow-moving tongas choking the Dariba Kalan, the open car with the Indian soldiers up front, Caitlin and the IPI’s Morley sitting behind them.

Morley saw him in the same instant, but his true identity clearly took longer to register. McColl had one foot on the running board and the Webley out from under his dhoti, before the other man could react.

“Don’t anyone move,” McColl said, holding the gun against Morley’s head. “Let’s go,” he told Caitlin, aware of the growing space around him as the locals slowly backed off. How could he disable the car and its occupants?

“Why don’t we take the car?” Caitlin suggested.

He grinned. “What a good idea. Out!” he told the two Indians.

They obeyed.

“Now start walking. That way.” He gestured toward the south.

With one last hopeless look at their English boss, they started trudging away.

“You won’t escape,” Morley said without a great deal of conviction.

“Now you,” McColl ordered, stepping back to let him out. “Take out your gun, and put it on the ground,” he added.

Morley did as he was told.

“Now walk.” McColl picked up the gun intending to hand it to Caitlin, but she was getting in behind the wheel. “I should have guessed you’d learned to drive,” he said. He climbed in beside her, once again conscious of the multitude around them.

As Caitlin drove carefully up the crowded street, the onlookers’ stares grew no less incredulous. It took a few minutes for McColl to realize why: a white woman chauffeuring a native man was not a common sight in British India.

“I never liked this damn business from the beginning,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, losing his usual linguistic precision in the stress of the moment.

Oh yes? Cunningham thought. The plan had originated in Delhi, if not in Fitzwilliam’s brain, with his obvious approval and encouragement. Cunningham idly wondered who, if anyone, would garner the blame. Always assuming that anyone would ever admit a mistake had been made.

“Too tricky by half,” Fitzwilliam was muttering as he strode up and down the room, glass of whiskey in hand. Through the window other club members could be seen in various degrees of midafternoon wakefulness.

The colonel placed his glass on the polished sideboard, extracted an oval Turkish cigarette from his silver case, and lit it with an English match. “You are certain a photograph was taken?”

“Not absolutely. But I saw something reflect the light, and what other reason would he have had to set up such a meeting?”

The colonel stared at his whiskey. “Pity you didn’t think of that before,” he said, adding a withering look for emphasis.

Cunningham returned the gaze and said nothing.

“But I suppose the damage is done. I suppose we’ll be hearing soon enough what McColl has in mind. Either blackmail or the fool’s picked up a bleeding heart in Russia.”

“I’d guess the latter,” Cunningham said.

Fitzwilliam grunted his disbelief, though whether in McColl’s new organ or the concept itself, Cunningham couldn’t be sure. “What about the Good Indian team?” Cunningham asked.

“Yes, I was coming to them. Did the Russian see the camera?”

“He must have.”

Fitzwilliam gulped down the last of his whiskey. “Well, we weren’t planning on giving them knighthoods.” He thought for a minute, leaning against the sideboard, the cigarette curling blue smoke across the back of his hand. “In fact,” he said finally, “our options seem extremely limited.”

Cunningham nodded. “Brady won’t be any great loss to humanity.”

“An arrest that goes sadly awry,” Fitzwilliam murmured, half to himself. He looked at his watch. “It’ll be dark in three hours. You’d better take a platoon—we don’t want any more slipups. And you can bury them there.” He allowed himself a wintry smile. “If we ever need more on Sayid Hassan, we can dig them up again.” He stubbed out the cigarette and turned for the door. “If only Gandhi had a garden,” he said over his shoulder.

If only, Cunningham thought, as he picked up the club secretary’s telephone. After arranging the troops for that evening, he strolled back down to the IPI bungalow. He’d been there only a few minutes when Morley returned, looking hot, disheveled, and angry.

“What happened to you?” Cunningham asked.

“That bastard McColl,” Morley spluttered, wiping the back of his neck with a damp-looking handkerchief. He told the story between gulps of ice water.

“But who was the woman?” Cunningham wanted to know.

“Not a clue, old man. She didn’t deny knowing McColl, but she claimed he wasn’t staying there. Lying like a trooper, of course. She had a faint American accent, I think. A looker, all right. Chestnut hair, big green eyes.”

“Nice tits?” Cunningham asked sarcastically.

“Sorry, I didn’t have time to take measurements,” Morley retorted in the same tone.

Cunningham laughed. “Okay, okay. It doesn’t matter now.” He explained about the setup at the station and his conversation with the colonel.

Hearing someone else’s tale of woe raised Morley’s spirits. “So what now?” he asked with his customary air of boyish expectancy.

“We clear up their mess. What else?” Cunningham gazed out of the window, wondering why he felt vaguely envious of McColl.

When Piatakov got back tothe house, he found Brady waiting in the chair beneath the banyan tree. When the American heard what had happened, he burst out laughing, loudly enough to bring Chatterji out of the house.

“What is happening?” the Indian asked with an uncertain smile.

As Brady repeated the story in English, Piatakov asked himself for the umpteenth time if she really was in Delhi, if she really had betrayed him.

“The police must have engineered it,” Chatterji said without stopping to think.

“No,” Brady decided. “Why would they? We’re not the sort of friends they’ll want to publicize.”

“Then who? Why would anyone do this?” the Indian asked nervously.

Brady raised a hand to quiet him, but said nothing for several moments. Then his face broke into a smile. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Look—”

“Who could have forced her to write a note like that?” Piatakov interjected in Russian. “I don’t understand it. If she’s a prisoner, then maybe. But whose? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Sergei, for Christ’s sake, get a grip,” Brady said coldly. “You left her and your precious party behind. What does it matter what intrigue she’s gotten herself mixed up in?”