by Hugh Miller
Mike crossed his heart and finished his coffee.
At one o’clock Whitlock took a cab to an address on West 3rd Street. He checked a name in his notebook, then descended carefully on narrow steps from street level to a shadowy basement door. A neon sign outside said TIME OFF in letters that alternated buzzily between green and red.
There was a weary woman at a desk by the door. ‘Five bucks,’ she announced.
Whitlock gave her a five. She dropped it in the drawer and stared glassily past him.
‘I’m looking for a man called Clancy Spencer,’ Whitlock said.
‘He’s working.’
On the platform at the far end of the club a grizzled black man was singing croakily into a microphone. He was accompanied on piano, sax and drums by men who looked nearly as old as he was. They were doing ‘Malted Milk’, after a fashion.
‘How do I get to speak to him when he’s done?’
The woman glanced at Whitlock for a split second. ‘Just let him see you got a drink for him, he’ll come soon enough.’
At the bar Whitlock got a Coke for himself and a large scotch for Spencer. He took the drinks to a table near the platform. As he sat down he held up the whisky in one hand and pointed to the singer with the other. Spencer caught on straight away and nodded, still croaking into the mike.
There were no more than twenty other customers in the place. Their applause when Spencer and the combo finished was a thin rattle around the smoky room, a sound like twigs snapping. A moment later Spencer sat down opposite Whitlock.
‘Nice meetin’ you.’ He reached across and shook Whitlock’s hand. ‘Call me Spence. What’s your handle?’
‘People call me C.W.’
Spence had the worst-fitting set of dentures Whitlock had ever seen. They were loose and they moved when he spoke, giving the impression that his mouth was out of sync with his speech.
‘Well then, C.W., this is mighty nice of you.’ Spence picked up the glass with finger and thumb, toasted Whitlock with a little swing of the glass, then swallowed half the whisky in one go.
‘How long have you been doing this, Spence?’
‘Singing in jazz dives? Since I was a kid.’
‘Never done anything else?’
‘I’d three years off to go to the war. Then I got married for a while and tried to make a go of a regular job. But it didn’t work out.’ He laughed throatily, making the dentures click. ‘Most of my life it’s been the way it is. Of course I ain’t what I was. Used to be a regular Eckstine. Now I’m just a broken singer of mostly broken songs.’
‘I thought that was Randy Newman.’
‘He stole the line off me.’ Spence laughed again. He finished the scotch and put down the glass, stared at it pointedly.
Whitlock got him another. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions, Spence?’
‘You a cop?’
‘No. I’m not anyone who means you harm.’
‘Easy to say.’ Spence picked up the fresh glass and sipped this time. ‘What kind of questions?’
‘About your friend who passed away the other day.’
‘Arno?’ Spence put down the glass. ‘You sure you ain’t a cop?’
‘I’m just a man who needs to know more than I do. Did the law give Arno any kind of trouble?’
‘Couldn’t say.’ Spence made a vague shape in the air with his hands. ‘Him and me, we got along because we didn’t pry in each other’s back yards. We could sit and drink ourselves motionless without having to communicate. But I knew Arno steered clear of policemen. He used to call them Cossacks. That’s what he’d mutter when he’d see one — Cossacks!’
The private investigator, Grubb, had told Whitlock that Spence had wept when he went to the funeral home to view Arno Skuttnik’s remains. He also said Spence told the duty undertaker that he and Arno had been friends for thirty years.
‘So what was it that made you buddies?’ Whitlock said. ‘Was Arno a jazz fan?’
‘Not that you’d notice. I think what it was, we were both the kind of loners that like to have a friend, y’know? You maybe think it’s strange in a man that sings for his livin’, but I ain’t really an outgoin’ fellow. I never in my life had more than two, three real friends at any one time. Arno was the same, and they were like him, they kept themselves in the shade.’
‘Do you know who they were, the others?’
Spence took a long pull on the whisky, studying Whitlock over the rim of the glass. When he put it down he smacked his lips. Whitlock could see he was making up his mind.
‘I’m no good with names, and far as I recall, Arno never gave any, anyway. But there’s a picture …’ Spence fished a plastic wallet from his inside jacket pocket and opened it on the table. He pulled out a coloured snapshot and handed it to Whitlock.
‘That was taken in here on Arno’s last birthday, six or seven months ago. Harry the barman took it. Those two people had dropped by to pass on their good wishes and leave a bottle of gin for Arno. He loved gin.’
The picture showed Spence and Arno side by side on the padded bench along the wall beside the bar. A man was leaning down, saying something to Arno; he was in profile and he wore a hat, but Whitlock could see it was Adam Korwin. The other person in the picture was a woman. She was turned away from the camera, her shoulder hunched defensively.
‘The lady didn’t want her picture took,’ Spence said. ‘She looked kind of mad that Harry did it.’
Whitlock could make out her left eye, the shape of her nose, the general style of her short hair, and he could see the rings on her left hand. She also wore a distinctive checked coat.
‘May I borrow this?’
‘If you promise I’ll get it back.’
‘You will.’ Whitlock finished his Coke and pushed back his chair. He didn’t want to pressure the old man any more than he had to. As he stood up he pointed to Spence’s glass. ‘I’ll leave you one at the bar.’ He put the picture in his pocket and turned to leave. Then he remembered something. ‘Spence. Do you know if Arno kept a diary, a journal, any kind of record of events?’
Spence shook his head. ‘It don’t sound like him. Besides, if he kept a diary, we’d none of us be able to read it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Arno never learned to write English.’
‘Not at all? How did he get by?’
‘People helped him out, I guess. Arno spoke English real well, but the writing was something he never got around to. He regretted that.’
Whitlock nodded and walked away. At the bar he paid for another large scotch and went outside. Upstairs, waiting for a cab to appear, he took out his notebook and scribbled a reminder to get the picture electronically copied and enhanced.
At the bottom of the page he put another entry in capitals: WHOSE WRITING ON THE PICTURE OF M. PHILPOTT?
5
Two days later Mike Graham landed in a Boeing 747 at Delhi and transferred at once to a black unmarked Sikorsky helicopter, the property of the New Delhi division of United Nations Information and Services. He was flown 500 kilometres north and set down on a patch of beaten earth in front of a large, shabby-looking cabin, set into a hillside above the northern boundary of Srinagar in north-western Kashmir.
It was almost dark when they landed. The setting sun was leaving streamers of red and purple above the mountains on the Pakistani border.
‘This is where I abandon you,’ the pilot called as Mike jumped out. ‘Bonne chance!’
As the helicopter took off again and Mike stood doubled over, his eyes shut tight against the dust storm, a tall Indian emerged from the cabin. He wore Levi’s and a checked lumberjack shirt. He smiled and waved.
‘Hi,’ he shouted, coming across. ‘I’m Ram Jarwal.’
He took one of Mike’s bags and led the way up to the cabin. When they went in, Mike stood in the living-room doorway and whistled softly.
‘The dilapidated exterior is designed to deflect envy and avarice,’ Ram said. ‘
Inside, we UN hill-dwellers like to have our comforts.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
Mike stepped in and put down his bags. There was a big console television in the corner, showing CNN News with the sound turned down. In the middle of the floor was a deep beige Indian rug with a sinuous pattern worked in dark and light shades of green and gold. Packed bookshelves covered two walls from the floor nearly to the ceiling, with bracketed sconces at intervals above them, giving the room an amber glow. A couple of shaded lamps, with bases made from many-coloured porcelain vases, stood on black tables at opposite corners, spilling light across the polished floorboards.
‘Sit down.’ Ram pointed to one of the three armchairs. ‘I’ll get us a drink. You like Jim Beam, right?’
‘They sent my CV on ahead,’ Mike said, smiling. ‘How civilized. Jim Beam will be just fine, with a little water.’
Ram brought the drinks and sat down with his own. He had the look of a successful businessman who spent time in the gym. His dark hair was slicked back over his ears; his umber skin, incredibly smooth, was wrinkled around the eyes and at the corners of the mouth, the only signs that he might be capable of ageing. When he looked up he had the eyes, Mike thought, of an interrogator.
‘I’ve got instructions to crash-course you on the layout and culture and customs of the Vale of Kashmir,’ he said. ‘I don’t have long, even by crash-course standards, so if you don’t mind we’ll start early tomorrow.’
‘Does it involve anything painful?’
‘Walking, mainly. If you tread the territory and use your eyes, you’ll catch the tone and temper of the place faster than any other way. After that, we can get down to particulars — like studying the dope trails, pinpointing fundamentalist hotspots and identifying known and probable villains in the region.’
‘What can you tell me about Reverend Alex Young?’
‘We’ve met several times,’ Ram said. ‘He’s a sincere man, a shade humourless for somebody so young, but his heart’s where it should be. He runs a good little medical centre for the poorer people and he has a three-Rs infants’ school operating two hours a day, Monday to Thursday. I don’t know anybody who doesn’t like him.’
‘I suppose he got in touch with the Security Council because he didn’t know there’s a UN man in the vicinity.’
‘That’s right. He doesn’t know what my job is — nobody here does. I function as regional eyes and ears for the UN, so I have to work behind a cover. Reverend Young, like everybody else, thinks I’m a civil servant. As far as they’re concerned I’m beavering away in my scabby cabin, engaged on a long-term proposal for improving rice production in the Vale.’
‘And I’m to be — what?’
‘A UN fact-finder. Sent in response to local uneasiness about the banditry and political shenanigans.’
Mike nodded. ‘What do you make of the troubles?’
‘They’re all rooted in greed.’ Ram ticked off his fingers. ‘Territorial greed, because this is a very lush and desirable place to live; commercial greed, since it would take a thousand years of pesticide spraying to choke the fertility of this region; raw financial greed, because some of the most cunningly developed, efficient and profitable drug routes in Asia pass through or near this area.’
‘And what would you say are the chances of bringing the violence and unrest under control?’
‘If what we guess is true,’ Ram said, ‘that only a few really bad guys are at the heart of it all, then I think a UNACO team could swing it and put things back the way they were ten years ago — still not perfect, but less likely to blow up into something international.’
‘Your guess could be wrong.’
‘Sure it could. People say there are unknown hands operating in the Vale, ruthless hands representing big national interests. And of course there’s the question of time. Even small random fires can set off powder kegs by accident. If that happens, there’ll be no low-key way to put things right.’
Mike finished his drink and stood up. ‘If we’ve got a really tough day ahead of us,’ he said, ‘I think I’d like to shower and hit the sack. Before I do I have to touch base. Do we have a satellite window?’
Ram looked at the clock. ‘Half an hour left.’
Mike went outside and stood for a minute, listening to the insect noises, gazing up at the canopy of stars. He took a deep breath and caught the fragrance of flowers and grass and warm tree bark. It was like being at home in Vermont in the summer, with all the sensations multiplied by ten.
He took out his mobile and flipped on the illuminator. An insect landed on the status window as soon as the light came on. Mike tapped three buttons and put the phone to his ear. The scrambler noises cut in and went away again. Philpott spoke.
‘It’s Mike, sir. I’m in position. After a scrub and a snooze I’ll be ready to go.’
Philpott asked if he had heard anything from Sabrina.
‘No, but I wasn’t expecting to.’
Philpott said she had arrived at Dehra Dun and had been moved north from there as scheduled, but now he had lost touch with her. ‘She should have called in more than two hours ago.’
‘I’ll keep my unit switched on all night,’ Mike said.
‘And I’ll do the same with mine. Keep me posted, Michael.’
As Mike began to fall asleep in his room at the cabin an hour later, less than a kilometre away a man called Ahmed Faiz was running for his life.
Ahmed had run for more than twenty minutes, through woods and thickets, down a ravine and across a rocky outcrop that tore the skin on his knees and hands. He was young, but the running and the fear had drained him, making his heart pound and his limbs drag like lead. He longed to stop and catch his breath, but to stop was to die.
‘Muhammad be praised,’ he panted, ‘Muhammad is good. Muhammad be praised, Muhammad is good. Muhammad be praised …’
Whenever he felt himself flagging, when his feet slowed and threatened to stumble to a stop, he thought of his wife and his three small children. He saw their faces and the image put strength in him.
‘Muhammad is good …’
He had to get back to where he came from, to the safety and enclosing love of his family. He had no idea how far he must still run until he was safe, he only knew he ran in the right direction; long ago, his father had taught him to read the stars. He drove himself to the west, the west and the border. Beyond the border lay Islamabad and the safety of his home.
‘Well now, Ahmed!’
He stopped and felt himself falling, losing his balance. He tumbled into the coarse grass and felt twigs tear his face. How had this happened? How did Iqbal get in front of him?
‘Up, little man! Up!’
He was hoisted like a doll and shoved against a tree. A torch came on, right in his eyes, the light painful as a knife. Ahmed shut his eyes, squirmed and felt another pair of hands take hold of him from behind the tree.
‘You were told, were you not, that there were severe penalties for stealing? You were told, also, that to flee would be senseless. There is no escape.’
Ahmed was panting too hard to reply. A heavy fist slammed into his stomach. Now he couldn’t inhale. The pain flared into his chest and he thought he would faint. Through the pounding in his ears he heard Iqbal, his mouth close, the breath warm on his ear.
‘There are no exemptions, Ahmed. You were well paid to do your simple job. You were given money to support your family. Yet you abused your master’s generosity. You stole.’
‘Twenty rupees!’ Ahmed gasped. ‘It was only twenty rupees! And I found it!’
‘You cannot find what is not lost, little man.’
‘It was lying on a bench!’
‘It was not yours. It was a simple test of your loyalty.’
Ahmed’s arms were gripped tighter. The torch was held higher as Iqbal stepped back. Ahmed heard the knife slide from under Iqbal’s sash.
‘Please! Please, I beg you! My wife and my children need me! I gave back the mon
ey, there is no need for this!’
‘There are rules, Ahmed. To break them is to commit a grave insult to your master. You knew that. You were not kept in ignorance of what would happen if you transgressed.’
‘Iqbal! No! I beg you!’
The kukri made a swift arc from right to left, slicing through Ahmed’s throat as if it was not there. It swung again from left to right and severed his head clean from his body.
Ram Jarwal woke Mike at six o’clock with a cup of coffee and told him he should be ready to leave in twenty minutes. Mike drank the coffee while he dressed. By the time he was ready, Ram was outside, tightening the laces on his walking boots.
It was a glorious morning. The sun shimmered through a light high mist and the air was fragrant and moist. Mike watched Ram do up the bolts and double-lock the cabin door.
‘It’s hard to imagine anyone would take the trouble to come all the way up here to burgle a cabin,’ Mike said. He had been gazing down the sides of the valley, which seemed incredibly steep. ‘On the other hand, some people might see it as a challenge.’
‘Some people might see it as an opportunity to get inside and wait for whoever lives here,’ Ram said. ‘Homicide robberies are not uncommon. The best you can do is make sure there’s no place for someone to hide. Before I moved in, I had all the trees within fifty metres cut down.’
Mike stood for a moment looking down into the valley. He pointed to a dark cluster beside a green thicket a hundred metres below them. ‘What’s that — the black patch? It looks like it’s moving.’
‘Vultures,’ Ram said. ‘They’re waiting for the police to leave.’
‘Police?’
‘There was a bulletin on VHF at five o’clock. A murder can’t stay hidden here for long. Vultures were spotted on the hillside. The police came up and found the body of a young man, they think he might be a Pakistani. Decapitated.’ Ram shrugged. ‘Another sadly frequent event.’
They set off walking south-east. They crossed sloping farmland and dusty roads, cutting across the natural lines and divisions of the land, taking shortcuts through woods and across gullies to a stretch of natural road. It was solid rock, the blunt edge of a ridge from which they could see terraced rice fields laid out like patchwork, every shade of green and yellow. A looming backdrop of dark hills to the north and east intensified the colours and provided a windbreak for hundreds of acres of cultivated land.