High Time To Kill rbb-3

by Raymond Benson

  “I want Skin 17 before anyone else gets it,” he said. Now his voice was controlled and even, but it was laced with venom. “We have learned that there are at least three expeditions being organized to climb Kangchenjunga and retrieve that specification. One is from England and is, of course, the one that is our most formidable adversary. Another is from Russia, manned by our friends in the Russian Mafia. The Chinese are mounting an expedition as well, with the hopes of retrieving the formula before we do—thereby giving them a reason to never pay us for the work we’ve already done for them. There may be more.”

  Le Gérant pulled another cigarette from his case and lit it. He inhaled, pausing for calculated dramatic effect. “Plans are now under way for the Union to accompany one of these expeditions to the great mountain. We will be the first to retrieve Skin 17. It could be the most important venture we undertake this year. Many of you will be called on to help arrange this. There will be no failure. Is that clear?”

  Everyone nodded, but Le Gérant couldn’t see them. Several of them turned back to look at the disgusting pool of red liquid dripping off the end of the table. A few felt physically ill.

  “IS THAT CLEAR?” he shouted.

  They quickly turned back to him and cried, “Yes, Le Gérant!”

  Le Gérant smiled. “Good. Then let’s have lunch. Is everybody hungry?”

  FOURTEEN

  WELCOMING RECEPTION

  AFTER SPENDING ALL DAY climbing up and down staircases while wearing heavy backpacks with Marquis and other members of the team on an officer’s training course near Oakhanger, James Bond drove to SIS headquarters for a late meeting with Major Boothroyd in Q Branch.

  “I want you to know that I postponed a very important dinner date to be here this evening,” Boothroyd said, punching in the security code to let Bond into the laboratory. “With a very beautiful woman, I might add.”

  “Really?”

  Don’t act so surprised, Double-O Seven. I may be an old man, but I’m still very healthy in that regard.”

  “I didn’t say a word, Major,” Bond said, smiling. “She is a very lucky woman.”

  I should say so,” Boothroyd replied. “We’ve been married twenty-eight years. Its our anniversary, and here I am, spending the evening with you.”

  “Well, let’s make it brief, shall we?”

  “Quite. Now, pay attention, Double-O Seven.” He led Bond to a metal table that was covered with various items. “I pulled these out of st0rage this afternoon after I learned the nature of your assignment. We’re also working with the Ministry in supplying some sophisticated communications equipment to the expedition. The Dutchman, what’s-his-name, he’ll have all that.”

  “Paul Baack?”

  “That’s right.”

  Boothroyd went on, handing him a small tube with a mouthpiece on it. “This is similar to our underwater emergency breather, except it’s for use at high altitudes. It holds about fifteen minutes of oxygen and fits into a pocket of your parka. Again, it’s only for emergencies.”

  The major indicated a pair of boots. “These are the best One Sport ‘Everest’ boots with alveolite liners and built-in supergaiters. They’re ultra light, and I think you’ll find them quite comfortable. The unique thing about them is that they’ve been designed with our special field compartments in the heels. In the right boot you’ll find medical and first aid equipment. In the left one you’ll find a set of small tools. Screwdriver, pliers, wrench . . . they might come in useful.”

  Bond examined the bivouac sack made by North Face. “Ah, that,” the major said. “It’s a bivouac sack for when you’re caught outside of camp at night. We’ve installed a special battery-operated power pack that will heat it up like an electric blanket. It also expands to allow room for a second person.”

  “How convenient,” Bond said.

  “You have your P99 on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me have it.”

  Bond handed him the Walther P99 and Boothroyd put it in what Bond hadn’t realized was a fur-lined holster.

  “I could just imagine you attempting to draw your gun out from under all those layers of clothing and the down parka you’ll most likely be wearing. By the time you got it out, you’d be a dead man. I think this outer holster should solve that little problem. It can be worn on top of your parka, but it’s still disguised to look like another pocket.”

  Boothroyd removed the gun and handed it back to Bond. “We’ll have your own gear sent to you in Kathmandu. We’ve ordered all the clothing and tools you’ll need, and we’ve spared no expense. Apparently M feels that this mission is important enough to spend a few hundred pounds on a sleeping bag. If you have any questions regarding any of it when you get there, send me a fax.”

  “What if I have a question in the middle of the Himalayas?”

  “You can still send a fax. Paul Baack will have direct satellite linkup to the Internet, fax, and telephone. You can send me a digital snapshot from the summit of Mount Everest if you’d like.”

  “I’m not climbing Everest.”

  Boothroyd shrugged. “It’s much the same thing, isn’t it?”

  Finally, the major opened a box and pulled out a package of plastic. “Inside this is an inflatable, portable seven-kilogram Gamow Bag. As you know, a Gamow Bag is a hyperbaric chamber used in an emergency to treat altitude sickness. This one is special because it’s got its own air pump and generator, eliminating the need for another person to use bellows on it.”

  Bond picked up a strange contraption that looked like an oxygen regulator, but it had two mouthpieces on it.

  Boothroyd smiled. “Ah, it figures that you would be attracted to that particular item.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s an oxygen regulator, of course.”

  “Why two mouthpieces?”

  Boothroyd shook his head. “I know you all too well, Double-O Seven. It’s a two-person regulator. You both can share the same oxygen at a pinch.”

  Seeing that most of the other members of the team are men, I resent that remark,” Bond said.

  The flight to Delhi was horrendous, and the overnight stay in the hotel closest to the airport was even worse. Even though the team arrived in the city at nearly midnight, the streets were heavily con-gested with traffic, pedestrians, and cows.

  Symbols of India’s religions were everywhere—Hindu images of Shiva, Ganesh, and Krishna, Buddhist statues, Sikh turbans, and even crucifixes. Nepal, though, would be completely Hindu and Buddhist. In fact, Nepal officially designated itself as the “only Hindu country in the world.”

  Not normally a religious person, Bond respected Eastern beliefs. Even so, he had fitful dreams of these various religious icons and woke up irritable and stiff. Sergeant Chandra, with whom he shared a room, seemed to take it all in his stride. Gurkhas are typically good-natured, no matter how unpleasant conditions may be, and Chandra was no exception. When Bond awoke, the Gurkha was humming to himself, standing at the counter dressed only in boxer shorts, making coffee with a ten-year-old Mr. Coffee machine that, surprisingly, came with the room.

  “Good morning, sir,” Chandra said, a large grin spread over his face. “Coffee?”

  Bond groaned and pulled himself out of bed. “Please. Black. Strong. Hot. I’m going to take a cold shower.”

  “That’s all there is,” Chandra said. “Apparently the hotel lost its hot water last night.”

  Bond told himself that he must get used to these little inconveniences. Once they had embarked on the trek to the Himalayas and set about ascending Kangch, all remnants of a civilized world would be long gone.

  Shortly before lunch the party met back at the airport to catch an Indian Airlines flight to Kathmandu.

  Because they were officials representing the British government, the team passed quickly through Immigration. They were met by the Nepalese Liaison Officer, an official who is always assigned to climbing expeditions. His duties include making sure proper permits and p
aperwork are submitted, and seeing that the expedition doesn’t stray from its allotted peak.

  The team piled into a rickety bus that must have been at least thirty years old. Bond gazed out the window at the streets, finally taking in that he was truly in the third world. It was such a contrast, even from Delhi. The blending of cultures in Kathmandu was striking The traffic snaked around water buffalo pulling wagons caring rice. There were open sewers along the sides of the roads. The people were dressed in an odd mixture of western fashions (T-shirts, blue jeans) and Nepalese and Tibetan dress. Barefoot, skinny children ran up to the bus when it stopped at a traffic light, holding out their hands and calling out, “Bonbon! Rupees! Iskul pens!” Apparently the universal English word for “sweets” in Nepal was “bonbon,” and as some tourists were prone to hand out pencils and pens, the children often asked for “iskul pens,” claiming that they needed them for “school.”

  The Yak and Yeti is one of the few luxury hotels in Kathmandu. Located on Durbar Marg, built around a wing of an old Rana palace, the lavishly decorated 270-room building is “modern” in every sense of the word, yet its history is thoroughly integrated in the design. Bond noticed that the architecture was both westernized and Nepali-Victorian.

  “This hotel is a beautiful one,” Chandra said as they got out of the bus. “For many centuries Nepal was cut off from the outside-world. Initially it was ruled by the Mallas, but Prithivi Narayan Shah established a kingdom in Kathmandu. During his tenure, a young army general, Jung Bahadur Rana, usurped power from the monarchy and established himself as the Prime Minister, with the title of maharaja and powers superior to those of the sovereign.”

  Bond and the others walked into the lobby through double glass doors and onto sparkling granite flooring. To the left was a large gazebo with huge French windows. The reception desk, built with a black granite top, was to the right. A magnificent and traditional Newari wooden window, exquisitely hand-carved by local artisans, stood above Reception, where a smiling Guest Relations Officer gracefully draped in a sari sat. Beyond the reception area was a lounge furnished with yellow and green upholstered chairs. The lounge overlooked the hotel’s lovely, well-manicured and landscaped lawns through picture windows.

  Chandra continued. “The Rana regime lasted for a hundred and four years, until 1951, and contributed to the country’s ornate neoclassical palaces. One of the reminders of this Rana period is the Red Palace, or Lai Durbar. It was built, oh, I think it was around 1855. This reconstructed palace now houses two fine restaurants—the Naachghar and the Chimney, as well as the Yak and Yeti Bar—all under one roof. Did you know that the Chimney owns the original copper fireplace from Boris Lissanevitch’s famous Royal Hotel? The bar there was called the Yak and Yeti, which is how this hotel got its name. Boris Lissanevitch opened the first western hotel in Nepal.”

  “Fascinating,” Bond said.

  The strong smells from the streets were not present inside the hotel. Instead, there was the pungent aroma of curry coming from one of the restaurants.

  Bond and Chandra were put in what was called a Tibetan suite. Rich silk was used to cover the walls of the room with typical Tibetan motifs in green and blue. The living room had a comfortable seating area containing furnishings of intricately carved wood. The walls and ceiling were adorned with brass and copper work. A private terrace offered a spectacular view of the Himalayan range and the Kathmandu valley. The master bedroom contained two queen-sized beds covered in silk in the same rich Tibetan colors. The bathroom was in marble with an oval-shaped bathtub and a separate shower.

  “Enjoy the luxury while you can!” Chandra said, dropping his bags on the floor. “In three days we leave all of this behind!”

  “Indeed. However, we’re supposed to meet our man from Station I at the hotel bar in an hour. What time is our orientation with the team?”

  Chandra looked at his itinerary. “Tonight, before dinner. We have the rest of the afternoon free.”

  “Good,” Bond said. “We’ll want to go to the temporary station house in Kathmandu and see what our man has for us.”

  Bond changed into lightweight khaki trousers and a Sea Island cotton navy shirt, while Chandra wore fatigues from his regiment. They went down to the Piano Lounge, just off the lobby, where the Mixture Trio Band were playing standards from the fifties, sixties, and seventies. Bond ordered a double vodka with ice. Chandra ordered Iceberg, the local Nepalese beer.

  “Are you going to see your wife?” Bond asked.

  “She is coming to Kathmandu and we’ll meet before we leave for the mountain. It’s a long journey for her. Most of the way has to be on foot.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Manmeya.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “She’s a pretty woman,” Chandra said, his grin stretching across his face.

  They finished their drinks just as Zakir Bedi came into the bar. He spotted Bond and Chandra and approached their table.

  “Mr. Bond?” he asked.

  “Yes?”

  “The tour you arranged is ready. Would you like to come with me?”

  “Certainly.” Bond charged the bill to his room, and he and Chandra followed Bedi outside.

  The midday sun was strong. The dust and heat and smell of the street assaulted Bond as they walked a mile to Durbar Square, the heart of old Kathmandu city. Clustered around the central square are the old Royal Palace and several temples designed with the multiroof Nepali pagoda style of architecture that spread to China and East Asia. Many of the temples are oddly adorned with erotic art on the roof struts. Unlike those in India, where the erotic carvings are sometimes sensuous, these are smaller, cruder, and even cartoonlike. Chandra told Bond a legend suggesting that the goddess of lightning was a shy virgin and wouldn’t dare strike a temple with such “goings-on.”

  The square was noisy and full of life. Taxis and cows shared the same roads. Street vendors huddled around their wares, barking for attention. At least three sadhus, or holy men, sat on blankets in the dirt, half naked, smeared in dust, their hair and beard matted. Several women carried dokos on their backs. These large wicker baskets were filled with a variety of items from vegetables to firewood, and were fixed to the body by means of a namlo, a strap around the forehead.

  The three of them walked behind the Shiva temple known as the Maju Deval, one of the larger temples in the square, and into a quieter side street. Bedi led them to an antiques shop that still bore the name Universal Exports Ltd.

  “We never changed to Transworld Consortium,” Bedi explained, “I rarely had to open the Nepal office, so we kept it the same. It’s normally unmanned. Saves money.”

  Bedi unlocked the door and ushered Bond and Chandra inside. The place was musty and filled with bric-a-brac, some of which might have been worth something in the tourist trade. Most of it however, was junk that was in place to create the illusion that the shop was legitimate.

  “Please excuse the dust,” Bedi said. “I had not been here for months until we tried to arrest Lee Ming. Come over here, I have something to show you.”

  They went through hanging drapes and into a passage leading to a door with a padlock on it. Bedi unlocked it, saying, “We’re not so sophisticated in Nepal, Mr. Bond. No keycards, no electronic steel doors, nothing like that. Just an ordinary key gets you into the Nepalese branch of the British secret service!” He laughed heartily.

  The “office” was a very small room containing a computer and monitor, file cabinets, a small refrigerator, a desk, and four chairs.

  They had worked up a sweat simply walking across town, so Bedi opened the refrigerator and took out three bottles of Iceberg beer. The beer was refreshing, but Bond didn’t care much for it. It had a curiously sweet taste, unlike some Indian beers that he enjoyed, such as Cobra.

  “I’ve learned something about the three hijackers,” Bedi said. He removed some eight-by-ten glossy photographs from an envelope on the desk. “They were Nepalese nationals who
escaped from prison five years ago and were believed to be dead. They were identified by two workers at the hangar where the tourist plane was kept.”

  “Do we know if they’re Union?” Bond asked.

  “We’ve been unable to determine that. It’s possible, I suppose, but they’ve been living in Nepal for the last five years. If they were Union - it seems that we would have had more evidence of their activities. We think they were living in the hills somewhere. What we did learn 15 that they were part of the old Thuggee cult that originated in India in the 1800s.”

  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.”