Raymond Benson - High Time To Kill

The “Thugs” were a religious organization that murdered and robbed in the service of a goddess.

“If I remember correctly, the British government supposedly hanged the last Thug in 1882,” Bond said.

“Mostly true,” replied Bedi. “But remnants of their group exist. I would think present-day Thugs would be prime recruitment candidates for the Union. You want to know the most interesting thing?”

“What?”

“They were in England briefly, shortly before the Skin 17 formula was stolen. Flew in one day, flew out the next.”

“How did they get in?”

“The visas were issued for ‘family reasons.’ We have since discovered that their so-called families in England never existed.”

Bond studied the photographs, then turned his attention to three more pictures that Bedi laid on the table. They were aerial views of the crash site on Kangchenjunga. The fuselage was plainly visible, surprisingly intact.

“Reconnaissance photos reveal that the plane is quite accessible once you get up to the Great Scree Terrace,” Bedi said. “But look at this detail.” He showed them another photo that magnified one of the aerial shots.

Footprints were evident around the open door of the aircraft.

“Someone survived the crash,” Bond observed.

“They couldn’t have survived the altitude,” Chandra remarked. They may have gotten out of the wreckage, but they wouldn’t have lived long at that height. None of those people was prepared for those conditions.”

Do you have any other pictures? Where do the footprints lead?”

Bedi shrugged. “We tried to take more shots, but the winds and snow had covered the tracks by the time we went back. You can see that they went off in this direction, toward the south, but beyond that we don’t know. He’s right, they couldn’t have survived at that altitude for very long. They hadn’t acclimatized themselves at all.

Whoever it was, you’ll probably find their frozen body in a crevasse somewhere.”

The men went through various other documents and reports. Zakir Bedi had no solid evidence that the Union were involved in the plane hijacking. To his knowledge, the Union had not operated on the Indian subcontinent at all.

By late afternoon they were finished. Bedi offered to walk them back to the hotel and led them out of the makeshift intelligence office.

The streets were still crowded, but the heat was beginning to subside as dusk approached and they walked into Durbar Square.

High above them, inside the Maju Deval temple, a Nepalese man held a Galil Sniping Rifle, a 7.62mm semiautomatic weapon that is manufactured in Israel. Designed with battlefield reliability in mind, the Galil could score head shots at 300 meters, half-body hits at 600 meters, and full-figure hits at 800 to 900 meters. The man was a good shot, but he wasn’t an expert. A sniper must have special training and technique, for bullets don’t fly in a completely straight line. Gravity and friction pull on a flight path; snipers must allow for “rise and drop” conditions. Some telescopic sights incorporate range finders to help the marksman in calculations, but intense practice is necessary to get it right.

It was this factor that saved James Bond’s life.

The first bullet hit the dirt at Bond’s feet. All three men dropped to the ground, then attempted to determine where the sniper was located. Bond squinted into the sun, almost certain that the shot had been fired from the large triple-roofed temple in front of him.

“He’s up there!” Bond pointed. He got to his feet and started to run toward the building. The other two followed him, but a passing rickshaw momentarily blocked their passage. When the man pulled the contraption away, Bedi was in front of Bond, peering at the temple.

“Is he still there?” he asked.

Up above, the sniper took a bead on Bond’s head. He didn’t know who the other two were. His others were to kill the Englishman. The crosshairs centered neatly on Bond’s nose, then the man squeezed the trigger Somehow, though, the Indian man got in the way.

The bullet struck Zakir Bedi on the side of the face, knocking him back into Bond.

“I see him!” Chandra shouted, running toward the temple. Bond dropped Bedi’s corpse on the ground, drew his Walther, and ran after Chandra.

The Gurkha stopped Bond at the door. “You can’t come in,” he said. “It’s forbidden to non-Hindus.”

“To hell with that!” Bond spat out.

“I’m sorry, James,” Chandra insisted. “Let me go. You wait here.”

“No, I’m coming with you.”

Chandra made a face, then went into the temple. In Nepal, there was a fine line between Hinduism and Buddhism. A well-known Shiva lingam was inside, but the roof was topped by a pinnacle shaped like a Buddhist stupa. It was dark, and Bond almost choked from the thick incense smoke. Worshippers looked up in horror at the westerner who had run inside the sacred place with a gun.

Bond followed Chandra to a set of stairs in the back that led to the layered roof. Another shot rang out, this time inside the building. Women screamed, got up, and ran out of the temple. The men who were there didn’t move, but instead watched with interest. They hadn’t seen this much excitement in a long time.

Chandra and Bond saw the sniper attempting to climb onto the sloping roof so that he could jump down to the ground below. Chandra was remarkably fast, scuttling out on the roof just in time to catch the man’s leg. The rifle fell as the two men struggled. Bond rolled out on the roof, halting his descent by lodging the heels of his boots in the shingles. Before he could lend the Gurkha a hand, the sniper twisted away and slipped off the edge of the roof. The man screamed as he fell, but the sound was abruptly cut short as he hit the hard ground.

Bond and Chandra climbed back into the temple and ran down the stairs. Chandra spoke Nepali to the spectators, explaining that they were policemen. Outside, they found the sniper had fallen on his bead. His neck was broken.

Chandra examined him and said, “He’s a local man. I can’t believe that he would have had much experience in shooting people.”

“That fits with Union recruiting practices, doesn’t it?” Bond asked.

“In Nepal, I would say, yes. Those bullets were meant for you.”

“Obviously,” said Bond. “That bloody leak at SIS is getting worse. There is no way that anyone in Nepal could have known of my presence. Bedi was the only one.”

They heard police sirens approaching. “Come on,” Chandra said. “We don’t want to get involved in this.”

They ran through the crowd and lost themselves before the police arrived.

FIFTEEN

TEAM WORK

THE TEAM MET in one of the yak and yeti’s impressive meeting rooms normally used for business functions. It was seven-thirty, and dinner was scheduled for eight o’clock in the fabulous Chimney Restaurant. Everyone was tired and hungry, but there was still excitement and anticipation in the air.

Marquis sat beside Bond and Chandra while waiting for two late arrivals. He leaned over and whispered, “I hear there was an Indian found shot to death today in Durbar Square. A Nepalese, it appears, was the killer. He’s dead, too. I was questioned this afternoon by police. Apparently, a Caucasian man and another Nepalese were observed fleeing the scene of the crime. Do you know anything about this?”

“Lord, no,” Bond lied. “Who was it that was killed?”

Some Indian businessman. Sorry, Bond, I had to ask. You two are the only Caucasian/Nepalese combination I know at the moment. Never mind, it’s time to start.”

Marquis got up as the two missing stragglers came into the room, and from the podium said, “May I have your attention, please?”