High Time To Kill rbb-3

by Raymond Benson

  She seemed to think that it was his fault somehow. “Ma’am, I assure you, I’ve treated this assignment with the same discretion that I’ve afforded every other one,” Bond said.

  “Stop it, I’m not blaming you,” she said. There were times when she really did sound like a mother hen. It was as if she were upset with her eldest son and, although she still loved him, held him more accountable than her “other” children.

  “It’s a short list of people who knew you were going to Brussels,” she said. “Do we have a traitor here at SIS? The thought is horrifying to me.”

  “I agree, ma’am. It’s been a long time since something like that’s happened.”

  “I don’t want it happening on my watch. Mr. Tanner, tell him what we’ve learned.”

  Tanner cleared his throat and said, “An autopsy was performed on the remains of Dr. Thomas Wood. Besides being shot in the head and leg, it appeared that his throat had been cut. From ear to ear.”

  “That’s the Union’s signature,” Bond said.

  “Could be,” Tanner agreed. “The slugs recovered from the body were nine millimeter, but they were too badly damaged to indicate what gun fired them.”

  M said, “Our analysts believe that Union involvement is entirely possible, especially considering that strange fax that Dr. Wood received. You know that they have recently gained a reputation for being quite good at infiltrating intelligence organizations.”

  “So, it’s possible,” Bond said, “that the Union are responsible for the breach of security.”

  M looked hard at him. “I’m afraid you have to play plumber for a while, Double-O Seven, and plug that leak.”

  Zakir Bedi, an Indian national based in Delhi, had been employed by the British Secret Service for nearly three decades. Over the years he had assisted in arresting terrorists, spied on Pakistan, smuggled Russian military secrets out of Afghanistan, and served as bodyguard and guide to visiting dignitaries. Now approaching retirement, Bedi wanted to perform one last exciting assignment for the firm before hanging up his hat. He would then go out with a nice pension and perhaps a service medal that he could display with pride.

  It looked as if he might realize his goal that afternoon in Kathmandu. It was just after lunch and he was sitting in a blue Tata jeep, one of the many used by the Nepalese police. Across the road was the famed Hotel Everest, isolated out on the Ring Road away from the central city in the section known as Baneshwar. One of the top hotels in Nepal, it was formerly the Everest Sheraton and it still maintained a very high standard with a bar, restaurants, sports facilities, disco, casino, and mountain views from upper floors.

  The sergeant to his left was speaking Nepali into a walkie-talkie. Three policemen were ready to enter the hotel, burst into the room occupied by a Chinese man, Mr. Lee Ming, and arrest him for inter-national espionage. Extradition papers had been filed in a hurry, and after intense negotiations between Britain, India, and Nepal, it was agreed that Zakir Bedi, in representing Britain, could enter the country, observe the arrest, and take charge of the prisoner. Inside his air-conditioned room, Lee Ming lay on his bed, fighting the stomach cramps that had held him in a viselike grip since the night before. As he had become older and developed heart problems, he didn’t travel well. He realized that he never should have volunteered for this assignment. Still, the money would be good if he ever made it back to Beijing.

  He had been in Kathmandu a little over twenty-four hours and had slept very little. His body wasn’t adjusting to the time change. After all, he had been in Belgium for three weeks and had undergone exhausting surgery. Now he was very tired and wished he could just sleep for a few hours. The problem was the edginess he felt because he didn’t know when he would be contacted for the surreptitious escape into Tibet. He had to be ready at a moment’s notice, which meant he couldn’t leave the hotel—not that he felt like doing so.

  He was just beginning to doze, when there was a loud knock at the door. Lee groaned, then pulled himself out of bed to answer it. When he opened the door, three rough-looking Nepalese men rushed inside.

  “Shhh,” one said, holding his finger to his lips. All three were short and stocky, and one had a black mustache. Obviously the leader of the group, he went to a window and pulled back the shades an inch. He gestured for Lee to come and look.

  The blue jeep and two men were down below. One was dressed in the traditional dark blue trousers, light blue shirt, and V-necked woolen sweater with badges of rank and medals attached. He wore a faded maroon beret and black combat boots.

  “Police?” Lee asked.

  The man nodded. “Come with us now. We get you out of Nepal,” he said in hesitant English.

  Lee said, “Okay. Let me grab my—”

  “No. Just come.” The man spoke a stream of Nepali to his companions. One of them opened the door and looked in the hallway. He waved, indicating that it was all clear.

  The men ushered Lee out of the room and to the fire escape stairs. Lee, unable to move quickly, was immediately a burden. Two of the men locked arms, picked him up, and allowed him to sit on them as they carried him down the stairs.

  The Nepalese policemen entered the hotel and took the lift to Lee’s floor. They arrived just as Lee and his rescuers came out of the stairwell on the ground floor and made their way toward one of the restaurants.

  They pushed around a group of tourists, then went through the restaurant and into the kitchen. There, the leader spoke Nepali to one of the chefs, who gave him a large burlap bag normally used to sack potatoes.

  “Put this on,” the man said to Lee.

  “What?”

  Without wasting any more time, the man threw the bag over Lee’s head. Lee began to protest, and the man said, “Shut up! Don’t make a sound!”

  Lee quieted down and allowed himself to go through this humiliation. The burlap bag completely covered him. Since he was a small, lightweight man, it was easy for one of the men to pick up the bag and haul it over his shoulder—like a sack of potatoes.

  The three men hurried out into an alley with the bundle. There they loaded Lee into the back of a pickup that was full of real sacks of potatoes. He grunted loudly as they dropped the bag on top.

  “Quiet!” the leader said again. “You are in truck. We drive to airport. Silence!”

  The men got into the truck, backed out of its space, and took off down Arniko Rajmarg toward the Kathmandu airport.

  Zakir Bedi noticed the potato truck pulling out from behind the hotel and heading southeast, but there were dozens of such trucks making deliveries to hotels in the area. He turned his gaze back to the front of the hotel, awaiting word from the men inside.

  Upstairs, one of the Nepalese policeman raised his hand to knock on Lees door but realized that it was ajar. He kicked it open to find the room empty. He swung the walkie-talkie to his mouth and shouted.

  Bedi, who understood Nepali, heard the report and cursed.

  We have to find him!” he said to the sergeant. They got out of the Jeep and ran inside the hotel. The two policemen met them in the lobby. They agreed to spread out and cover every conceivable exit.

  Bedi was running toward the casino when he passed the restaurant. Going on a gut feeling, he asked the maître d’ if he had seen a Chinese man come through there. He flashed a photo of Lee. The maître d’ made an affirmative noise and pointed to the kitchen. Bedi shouted into his own walkie-talkie and ran through the restaurant.

  The other policemen met him in the kitchen, where the leader questioned the chefs. Finally, one of them admitted being paid to hide the Chinese man in a potato sack.

  “Potatoes?” Bedi asked. “I just saw a potato truck leave the hotel. They’re headed for the airport! Let’s go!”

  The policemen and Bedi rushed outside to the jeep and took off in pursuit.

  Tribhuvan International Airport is located four kilometers southeast of Kathmandu and is the country’s single international air entry point. Built in 1989, it handles over a thou
sand passengers per hour, quite an improvement over the old terminal with lines trailing out the doorway and an open-air waiting lounge. Among the international and domestic flights that operated out of Tribhuvan, several private tourist agencies offered sightseeing trips from the airport.

  The potato truck sped into the airport, jostling Lee Ming and the potato sacks with every bump in the road. They passed the main terminal and drove around to the private hangars. One sight-seeing operation, a British-run company called Above the Earth Flights, was preparing to send a twin-propeller plane around the Himalayas with a group of ten to fourteen British and American passengers. The truck, however, shot past the line of tourists and headed for another hangar, where a single-prop plane was fueled and waiting with the pilot on board.

  The truck halted with a screech and the men poured out. They quickly pulled the burlap bag out of the back and freed their Chinese client.

  “You fools!” Lee cried. “All that bumping could have opened up my chest!”

  “Shut up and get in the plane,” the leader ordered. “Do as we say or you’ll be arrested. The police are right behind us!”

  Lee grumbled and walked toward the plane. “Is this thing safe?” he asked.

  Behind Lee’s back, the leader looked at his other two companions and gave the signal they were waiting for.

  The jeep, meanwhile, drove into the airport complex at a high speed. The sergeant contacted airport security and was told that a potato truck had been seen near the private hangars. He directed the driver to pull around the terminal. They also passed Above the Earth Flights, and then saw the single-engined four-man plane taxiing, ready to move toward the runway.

  “Stop that plane!” Bedi shouted.

  The jeep swerved in front of the aircraft. The three policemen jumped out and aimed FN 7.62mm self-loading rifles at the cockpit. The sergeant grabbed a bullhorn and ordered the pilot to stop.

  The plane came to a halt as the officers approached it. Bedi got out of the jeep and went to the side of the aircraft. As the door opened, he leaped up the steps and stuck his head in the cabin.

  It was completely empty.

  Confounded, he turned to the pilot and asked where his Chinese passenger was. The pilot shook his head as if he didn’t understand. Bedi drew a Browning Hi-Power 9mm handgun, the same pistol used by the Nepalese police.

  “Tell me where he is or your brains will be all over your nice, clean windscreen,” he said. Although Bedi had been raised a Hindu and still believed that the taking of human life was a grave sin, he had never hesitated doing so in the line of duty. As he had grown older, religion became less and less important to him. He figured that Shiva the Destroyer was on his side since he worked for law and order.

  The pilot pointed to a hangar some two hundred yards away. It was the tourist company’s outfit.

  Bedi jumped out of the plane and shouted for the policemen to get into the jeep.

  “He’s over there!” he yelled, pointing to the twin prop that was just leaving the hangar.

  The words ABOVE THE EARTH FLIGHTS were painted on the sides of the plane. It was beginning to pick up speed on the runway. The jeep sped after it, and the sergeant blasted orders with the bullhorn. The pilot refused to stop. The sergeant contacted the control tower and ordered them to halt the takeoff. He was told that the pilot was not responding.

  Had they been able to see inside the cockpit, they would have understood why the pilot was incommunicado. The leader of the three Nepalese men was holding a pistol to his head.

  “Just take off and get in the air,” he commanded.

  The other two hijackers were holding guns on the eleven frightened passengers, all British or American adults of both sexes. Lee Ming was sitting among them, next to a window. He didn’t know what the hell was going on. Was this the Union’s plan? Hijack a tourist plane? Where did they think they were going to go? Surely they couldn’t cross the border into Tibet in a tourist plane!

  Zakir Bedi ordered the jeep’s driver to speed up, although the plane was now gaining momentum and would soon be off the ground.

  “Shoot at them!” he ordered. One of the policemen aimed his SLR and fired. A bullet pinged off the tail, damaging it slightly, but it didn’t slow the plane.

  The aircraft reached its top speed and lifted off. It sailed neatly over the terminal and into the sky.

  “Call your air force! We have to stop that plane!” Bedi shouted at the sergeant.

  “Air force? We don’t have an air force!”

  Zakir Bedi put his head in his hands. After taking ten seconds to count to himself, he said, “Tell the control tower to keep track of that plane. I want to know where it goes.”

  Passengers were beginning to panic inside the aircraft. One of the Nepalese men told them to shut up.

  The leader told the other man to keep the gun on the pilot, then went into the small, cramped cabin to address the people.

  “Please remain calm,” he said. “This plane is not going to look at Mount Everest as originally scheduled. We’re taking a little side trip to Darjeeling. No one will be harmed if you stay quiet and cooperate. You’ll be back in Kathmandu in a few hours.”

  Darjeeling? Lee Ming thought. Why Darjeeling? They were supposed to be going to Tibet! Was this a new, roundabout way of getting there? One of the passengers, a man in his fifties, said, “Excuse me, I’m Senator Mitchell from the United States, and this is my wife.” He indicated a man and a woman across the aisle. “That’s Mr. Roth and his wife. He’s a Member of Parliament in Britain. I’ll have you know that both our governments will not tolerate—”

  “Shut up!” the leader said, pointing the gun at him. The senator complied.

  Lee gestured for the leader. “What is going on? Since this is all about me, I demand you tell me what is happening.”

  The leader smiled and said, “I’m sorry I could not say before. We’re taking you to a safe place in Daijeeling. What becomes of you there is not our responsibility.”

  “What do you mean? I thought I was going to Tibet.”

  “Plans change” was all the man said.

  Smelling a rat, Lee Ming suddenly became very agitated. He felt his heart start to pound, but the pacemaker kicked in after a few seconds. Still, he felt very anxious. Something was very wrong. These men weren’t Union.

  Relying on old skills and the experience of a man who was in his prime, a formidable secret service agent, Lee Ming jumped out of his seat and attacked the leader. They struggled in the aisle as passengers screamed. The Browning went off accidentally. The hijacker holding a gun to the pilot’s head was hit in the throat. He fell back against the controls, gagging.

  The plane swerved dangerously before the pilot was able to level it and set a course for east Nepal.

  The leader punched Lee hard in the face. The Chinese man fell back into his seat, unconscious. The leader told the woman next to “Fasten his seat belt.”

  He went back to the cockpit and pulled his companion out and kid him in the aisle. He was dead. The other conspirator looked frightened. Now what would they do? In answer to the unstated question, the leader said, “We continue as planned. It just means more money for the two of us, right?”

  The other man hadn’t thought of that. He grinned nervously and nodded.

  “Keep an eye on the passengers, and especially that Chinese piece of dirt,” the leader said, then went back to the cockpit.

  The pilot said, “There’s a storm over east Nepal. Looks like a bad one. We should not fly that way.”

  “Just get us to Darjeeling,” the leader said.

  “I can’t without going through the storm. We don’t have enough fuel to skirt around it. We’ll have to go back to Kathmandu.”

  “No! Fly into the storm. We’ll take our chances.”

  “Are you mad? We could crash into one of the mountains!”

  The leader shoved the barrel into the pilot’s temple, hurting him. “Get us to Darjeeling, or you’re dead.”

/>   “If you shoot me,” the pilot stammered, “then you will die, too.”

  “So be it. You want me to shoot you now and get it over with?”

  The pilot hesitated, then turned the plane eastward.

  A half hour later, they felt the effects of the storm. High winds, sleet, and snow battered the little plane. The turbulence bounced it up and down, frightening the passengers even more. Some of them were praying aloud, others were sobbing and holding on to their loved ones, and a few were sitting silently, staring ahead in horror. The senator from America was sweating profusely. The Member of Parliament was biting his lower lip.

  They were over Taplejung when visibility became impossible. Now even the leader was concerned.

  “Do you know where we are?” he asked.

  The pilot shrugged. “Somewhere over east Nepal. The navigation isn’t working. They shot at our tail earlier, on the ground. There’s something wrong with it. I can’t maneuver the plane very well. We should turn back.”

  “Keep going.”

  The pilot, who was not accustomed to anything more complicated than sight-seeing flights over the Himalayas, didn’t know how to handle the situation. He was lost, and he had no clue as to which way was north or south. For all he knew, he could be flying completely off course.

  The storm assaulted the plane with intensity. At one point the aircraft dipped so abruptly that the pilot thought for certain that it was all over. He managed to pull the aircraft back up into the thick white wall of horror and kept going. He didn’t know that the plane was now headed northeast into the Himalayas.