James Becker - The Messiah Secret

‘That’s totally bloody extortionate, and you know it,’ Masters snapped. ‘I figured fifty grand, tops. It’s two jeeps, a couple of flights in a chopper, two sat-phones and a bit of forgery. How the hell did you come up with that figure?’

‘You know how. Because I can supply everything that you need and because I won’t ask you questions that you don’t want to answer. You’re very welcome to try to find somebody else if you think that’s too expensive. And it’s half now, as in right now.’

‘Meaning what, precisely?’

‘Meaning a transfer to my Swiss bank today, or the price goes up ten thousand. I’ll want the second half on completion of the operation.’

Masters knew Rodini had him over a barrel. He didn’t know any other high-ranking military officers in that part of Pakistan, and if he tried to use one of his other possible contacts Rodini might well hear about it and block him. And a junior officer couldn’t just snap his fingers and a helicopter would appear — yet Rodini could, and frequently did. And, Masters reflected, it wasn’t as if it was his money anyway.

‘OK, you blood-sucking bastard, it’s a deal,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell my principal to wire you the money. I can guarantee the instruction will be given within the hour, but I can’t be certain when the funds will arrive in Switzerland. That’s completely out of our hands.’

‘Your credit’s good with me,’ Rodini said. ‘As soon as the first fifty thousand gets to my account I’ll keep my side of the deal. But if it doesn’t arrive, you and your men will have a really long wait for the helicopter.’

A Dhruv — the utility helicopter built in India by the HAL company — came to a hover and then settled on to a concrete hardstanding at a small Indian Army base just outside Karu, on the east bank of the Indus and about thirty miles south of Leh.

The howl of the jet engines diminished as the pilot closed the throttles and lowered the collective, the parallel steel skids spreading slightly apart as the weight of the aircraft settled on to them. Safely on the ground, the pilot initiated the shut-down procedure, the engine noise dying away even further. The four-bladed main rotor slowed visibly, and eventually came to a stop, the blades dipping and weaving slightly in the wind blowing across the army base. Only then did the doors of the Dhruv open.

Two men emerged, one climbing out with the ease that came from long familiarity with the aircraft, the other man — a shorter and stockier figure in a set of faded green flying overalls — clearly having some difficulty. The pilot walked round the nose of the helicopter to assist him, then both men walked away towards an adjacent single-storey building, the shorter man carrying a bulky leather carry-on bag.

Just under an hour later, Father Michael Killian sat in a hard wooden chair in the briefing room and wondered yet again why the place wasn’t air conditioned. It wasn’t the clinging, muggy heat that had assaulted him when he’d stepped out of the aircraft at Delhi, but it was still hot enough inside the room to be uncomfortable, even in the relative cool of the early evening.

He had drunk two bottles of ice-cold water and pecked impatiently at a tray of snacks he’d found on the self-service bar on one side of the room while he waited to speak to the officer in charge.

The door finally opened and a smartly dressed Indian Army officer stepped inside. Killian was unfamiliar with American military ranks, and knew virtually nothing about the insignia of foreign armed forces, but simply from the man’s bearing it was clear he was a senior officer.

‘You’re Father Killian?’ the man asked, his English fluent.

Killian nodded.

‘Colonel Mani Tembla,’ the officer said, extending his hand. ‘I’ve been instructed to assist you in any way that I can. But first, I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.’

‘Actually, I do mind, Colonel,’ Killian said. ‘Time is of the essence here, and it’s essential that we find these two people before they begin their search.’

Tembla looked mildly amused by Killian’s tone.

‘We already know where they are, and exactly what they’re doing,’ he said calmly. ‘What happened to your ear?’ he added.

‘I had an accident,’ Killian snapped, reaching up to check the dressing on the left side of his head. His fingers strayed across his cheek, feeling the scratches inflicted by Angela Lewis. They, at least, were healing well. ‘So where are they?’

‘They’re in Leh, in a guest house.’

Killian stood up in frustration. ‘What?’

‘I gave orders earlier today that Bronson and Lewis were to be identified as soon as they arrived in Leh. That wasn’t difficult — there aren’t that many flights up here, and my men spotted the English couple almost immediately. I’d already advised the local police, and they quickly discovered where they were staying and identified the vehicle they’d hired. All perfectly routine stuff, I can assure you. But it did raise one important question.’

‘And what is that?’ Killian demanded.

‘All in good time. Now sit down. Calm yourself,’ Tembla instructed. ‘My orders have been both specific and vague, which is somewhat unusual. I’m aware that tracking these two people has a very high priority for somebody in my government — the fact that you, an American citizen, are sitting here in this base is sufficient proof of that — but what nobody has bothered to tell me is why. The wording of the orders I was given suggested that they might be terrorists, and this is a very sensitive area, because of the borders with Pakistan and China.

‘But this does not explain why you are tracking them. We are perfectly capable of following and intercepting terrorists without any assistance. If we do work with entities based outside India, it’s invariably with the military or intelligence agencies of other countries. You, as I understand it, have no official standing or authority. As far as I can tell, you’re just an American priest. So what, exactly, are they doing here?’

Killian looked appraisingly at Tembla. ‘Are you a Christian, Colonel?’ he asked.

Tembla shook his head. ‘I’m a Hindu, like about eighty per cent of the population of this country.’

‘But there is a Christian community here in India, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, of course. Sikhs and Christians form about five per cent of the population, and the Syrian Church here in India is the second oldest Christian Church in the world, after Palestine. One of the earliest of all the saints — St Thomas — is believed to have landed at Kerala, down in the south-western tip of the country in AD fifty-four. So Christianity is a very old religion here, and a very important one, at least for a small part of our population. What’s your point?’

‘My point is very simple, Colonel. The man who signed your orders is a major-general, but he’s also a Christian. He issued those orders after he received a telephone call from a man sitting in an office in the world’s smallest state.’

‘You work for the Vatican?’ Tembla demanded.

Killian shook his head. ‘Who I work for is irrelevant. All you need to know is that a short time ago some information came into my possession that had the potential to cause irreparable damage to the Catholic Church, and I brought it to the attention of a senior Vatican official.’

‘What information?’

‘I was forbidden to reveal that to anyone.’

Tembla looked at him levelly. ‘If you’re expecting to use the equipment and personnel of this base, which I command, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that. I need to know exactly what you’re looking for, so I can commit the appropriate resources to the task.’