by Matt Rogers
Further up the bank, he heard a groan.
He rolled to one side and squinted against the glare.
King sat on his rear with his knees tucked up to his chest, sporting a thousand-yard stare. One side of his face was already swelling, the skin bruising and turning purple in real time. He looked over and said, ‘That was a hard landing.’
He couldn’t stop shivering.
Slater managed to jerk a thumb toward the Dornier wreckage. ‘Not as hard as that would have been.’
‘Touché.’
‘Did you land face-first?’
‘I… don’t know,’ King said.
His words were slurred. The byproduct of swollen lips.
Slater said, ‘You might be concussed.’
‘Maybe.’
‘We did it. We’re here. The end of the road.’
King patted himself down. ‘I assume you lost your gun too.’
Slater lowered a shaking hand to his waist. He prodded and touched. Then he said, ‘Yeah. It’s gone.’
‘We’re dead if we walk into that village.’
‘No we’re not.’
King looked over. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m on the verge of collapsing.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you expect us to go up against the rest of these insurgents unarmed and half-dead?’
‘There won’t be any insurgents in Phaplu.’
‘You seem to think Aidan Parker has been orchestrating all of this.’
‘No,’ Slater said. ‘Only part of it.’
‘If I was feeling better, I might be able to work this out. But right now… I can barely put two and two together.’
‘Don’t worry. I worked it out myself.’
‘You did?’
‘Yeah.’
‘When?’
‘It hit me all at once. When I saw that spreadsheet.’
‘Care to explain?’
So Slater did. He laid it all out, every last detail, demonstrating how this complex puzzle of Maoist rebels and ex-Naxalite kidnappers and scheming bodyguards and secret files all came together into a straightforward storyline. King listened, and his eyes progressively widened as Slater told him everything he knew.
When it was over, King said, ‘So Parker won’t have anyone protecting him?’
‘Maybe a couple of soldiers he’s paid off,’ Slater said. ‘But it’s unlikely. He’ll be scrambling right now. He won’t have time.’
A pause.
Slater said, ‘And he thinks we have his daughter.’
King placed his hands on the dirt and pushed off the riverbank, getting unsteadily to his feet. His legs shook. Slater could see the pain on his face as he tested his bad ankle. Clearly the impact with the river had disrupted any healing that might have begun on the swollen joint.
But he could stand.
And he could limp.
And he could close a fist.
He helped Slater up and said, ‘Let’s go get that son of a bitch.’
84
They’d lost the satellite phones, and their bags, and their guns.
They had nothing but the clothes on their backs.
But that was enough.
They limped up the riverbank, traversing the forest-coated hill between the river and the village of Phaplu. The sun went away as they hobbled through the clusters of trees, replaced by the eerie grey of low-hanging cloud. Each step sent bolts of pain through their battered, broken bodies, but they’d managed to avoid any permanent injuries. They could walk, and they could think straight. So even if it took them all day to cover the half-mile of terrain, they’d do it.
Because neither of them had an ounce of quit in them.
King put the majority of his weight on his good leg, dragging his puffy ankle behind him. It hurt like hell, but what didn’t? By now it was all blurring together. He looked to the left and saw the staggering snow-capped mountain range far in the distance. Had he really just been there? Had he summited Gokyo Ri earlier that morning? Had he seen Raya die at the peak?
It felt like a lifetime ago.
‘How do we find him?’ he said. ‘You told him to go to a secure location. We have no way of contacting him.’
‘It’s a tiny village,’ Slater said. ‘We walk around, and keep our eyes peeled.’
‘And if we come up with nothing?’
‘Then we don’t stop until we get our hands on him.’
‘Do you think he suspects anything?’
‘I think he’s holding out hope that we’re actually going to show up with Raya.’
‘Surely he imagined—’
‘You now know what he is,’ Slater said. ‘You know what he was willing to do. He had to know this outcome was a possibility. He had to know we might fail.’
They didn’t speak as they ascended the steepest part of the hill, and as soon as they reached the top, Phaplu spread out before them. They’d come up on the opposite side of the airport. They looked through the perimeter fence and saw the small runway draped in cloud, and beyond it, the hiking trail. On the other side of the trail was the familiar row of teahouses they’d walked past at the beginning of their journey.
Only days ago.
It felt like ten lifetimes ago.
Slater took the lead, and King followed. They walked the length of the airfield until the fence fell away and they were able to meet the trail. Then they strode into Phaplu.
It was now mid-afternoon, and there was some activity. Guides, porters, and foreign hikers alike moved through the mud, either fresh off planes and brimming with vigour or worn down by a return journey to be reckoned with. The contrast was palpable. King couldn’t imagine what everyone thought of him and Slater. There was the exhaustion of days or weeks of trekking, and then there was a whole other level of tired reserved only for those who had pushed their bodies to the brink of death.
King scrutinised first himself, then Slater. He shivered in the chill, dragging one leg behind him, clad in dirty, damp, tattered clothes. He knew his face was lined with dirt and sweat and the remnants of blood that hadn’t been washed out by the glacial river water. Then there was Slater. The bandage around the man’s head had somehow held tight, but it was yellow with sweat and red with blood and faded and torn by the hell they’d gone through in Lukla. His arm was still wrapped in day-old bandages, but the makeshift cast was falling apart, exposing the grisly knife wound underneath. The staples had done their job, though, and the wound seemed to already be healing. When they got back on home soil, Slater would need to be loaded up with every antibiotic under the sun to prevent infection.
Together, they were a sorry sight.
But they were alive.
Adversity hadn’t defeated them.
And that gave them strength.
They moved slowly past every teahouse, glancing through windows, lingering unnecessarily, letting everyone see them. They were a sight for sore eyes, but there were no hostile parties in this village. They’d realised the second they stepped foot onto the trail. There was no tension in the air. No one was squared away or reserved. Just weary travellers finishing their journey, and fresh faces about to start. No insurgents, no soldiers — no trained killers of any kind. It was a quiet, quaint village, and King almost regretted that soon they would have to disrupt that.
Hopefully they could do it in privacy, if Parker had done what they’d asked of him.
They passed the teahouse where they’d spent the first night, where they’d first met Aidan Parker and his guide, Sejun. It lay dormant and silent. They hovered in the entranceway for a beat, scanning the main communal area for any sign of them.
Nothing.
So he had relocated.
That was something, at least…
They ventured down the nearest laneway, choosing it at random. The road was potholed and the walls that enclosed the space were damp with mildew. The cloud had drifted into Phaplu, draping a thin veil over everything.
They’d almost reached the back o
f the village when a side door flew open beside them.
King turned fast, ready for anything, his fists clenched.
Neither he or Slater had access to a weapon, but they would fight to their last breath with their bare hands if it came to that. But they both realised it wouldn’t be necessary.
Aidan Parker stood in the doorway, his features dulled by the shadow of the cloud and the darkness of the building. He was unarmed. He suspected nothing. His paunchy belly stuck out over the edge of his weatherproof pants. He wore an expensive windbreaker and had heavy bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. His hair was a mess, its thin wispy tufts sticking out at a dozen different angles.
He had the aura of a good man stressed to the eyeballs, involved in a situation he didn’t deserve.
Slater knew better.
He knew it was a facade, carefully crafted to dissipate suspicion.
Parker said, ‘I tried calling, but you didn’t answer…’
‘We ran into a few problems,’ Slater said. ‘We handled them.’
Parker noticed their condition, and lingered on the extent of their injuries for what felt like forever. Then he noticed the absentee.
‘Where is she?’ he said.
Slater said, ‘Is your guide here?’
Parker hesitated. ‘No. I figured from the tone of your voice in the call, it would be best if we were alone.’
‘Good,’ Slater said.
King stepped up and shoved Parker inside.
Slater followed, and they closed the door behind them.
85
Parker gasped in mock horror, as if it were the most brazen crime on the planet to push an innocent bureaucrat.
After all, he wasn’t the one to get involved with the physical side of the business. He sat behind a desk and coordinated logistics and made sure intelligence was conveyed accurately. That made him soft and weak and flabby, which he must have thought put an unconscious barrier between himself and the men and women he sent out into the field to die.
That was all about to change.
Slater grabbed him by the collar and shoved him further into the room.
Into the shadows.
It was a storage room, loaded with crates of Cokes and Sprites and raw ingredients, all stacked neatly up to the ceiling. There were no lightbulbs or lamps of any kind — only a couple of fogged-up windows on the far side of the room that let in twin shafts of silver light. The floor and walls were made of rock, and the space echoed. It was cold. Dark.
The perfect setting for an interrogation.
Parker managed to keep his feet, but King hit him once in the stomach and he went down to his knees like he’d been shot. Slater moved in to follow up with another strike, but King put a hand on his chest and murmured, ‘Wait,’ under his breath.
Slater hesitated.
Wondered what King was getting at.
Then Parker lunged for one of the crates.
He was slow and unathletic, and he was shaking. He managed to slip his hand through a pair of wooden slats before King pounced on him. King seized him by the shirt, spun him around like he weighed nothing, and threw him toward the opposite wall. Parker bounced off a couple of the crates and collapsed in a sobbing heap.
King reached between the same slats and extracted a fresh, clean Beretta M9.
Loaded.
Ready to fire.
He pinched it between two fingers and held it up for Slater to see, like it was evidence at a crime scene. ‘See?’
Slater nodded. ‘Now we have a gun.’
‘Yes,’ King said, turning to Parker. ‘We do.’
Parker moaned and said, ‘I think you broke my back.’
‘No,’ King said. ‘We threw you around a couple of times. You might have a few bruises. You’re not used to pain, are you, Aidan?’
Parker went pale.
Slater stepped forward, boot by boot, placing his feet right near Parker’s unprotected face.
He said, ‘You sit behind a desk and think you know what people like us go through. It’s delusional, sure, but I guess it explains why you made the decisions you made. Because you didn’t think about the repercussions.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Parker said. ‘Where’s my daughter?’
‘We’ll get to that later. But whatever happened to her … you should know it was your fault. You should carry that with you forever.’
Parker looked up, and there were tears in his eyes. ‘What are you saying? Are you saying she’s—?’
‘I’m not saying anything. All you know is that she’s not here right now. What you should be focusing on is the answers to the questions we’re about to ask you.’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ he said, talking fast to try and defuse the situation. ‘I haven’t done anything. You have the wrong information. You—’
‘Shhhh,’ King hissed.
Parker looked up. ‘Please, guys, I’m—’
King raised both hands in innocence. ‘Don’t look at me. I’m not the one who figured it out. That was all Slater’s work. So he’s going to ask you the questions.’
King stepped back.
Slater stepped forward, and crouched down by Parker’s cowering form. ‘If you had to guess, Aidan, how many insurgents do you think we killed over the last few days?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I told you to guess.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What insurgents?’
‘You know.’
‘I told you both already, I’m—’
Slater turned to King. ‘How long do you think it’s going to take him to realise?’
King shrugged.
‘Realise what?’ Parker said.
Slater turned back. ‘Sooner or later you’re going to figure out that your best bet is to be honest with us. We know exactly what you did. We know why you did it. We know how firmly you’re going to try to deny it. But no amount of whining or pleading or begging is going to get you out of it, and hours are going to pass, and we’re still going to be here in this room with you, and no one will come to help. Eventually you’re going to cave in. The only question is whether it’s going to be now, or in a few hours, or in a few days. And there’s a lot we can do to you in that time.’
The silence was ominous.
Slater said, ‘Be honest with us, Aidan. It won’t hurt your chances. You’re in deep shit regardless.’
Parker’s upper lip quivered, but he didn’t respond.
He stared a thousand yard stare, directly into the cold concrete beneath him.
Then he raised his gaze and said, ‘What happened to my daughter?’
‘She died,’ Slater said. ‘Because you got greedy and thought it would all go off without a hitch. Because you wanted power. Because you put your own child in harm’s way to advance your political career.’
What little blood was left in Parker’s face drained away completely.
He turned white as a ghost.
Guilt settled over him in a cloud.
When he lifted his eyes again, Slater knew he would confess to everything.
He was broken.
Slater said, ‘How many insurgents do you think we killed for you, Aidan?’
‘Probably dozens.’
‘And that was the plan all along, wasn’t it?’
Parker hesitated, realising if he responded it would be his first admittance of guilt.
But the walls were already crashing down around him.
He had nothing left.
Silently, he nodded.
86
Slater said, ‘Confirm everything I’m about to tell you. And don’t even think about trying to cover anything up. If I’m wrong, correct me. If I’m right, tell me. Understand?’
Parker nodded.
He didn’t look up.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the floor.
Slater said, ‘Planning a future push for president as an unknown candidate is going to require at least a cou
ple of billion dollars in campaign spend, right?’
A nod.
‘Because nobody knows who you are. You’re not a known politician in the public sphere, and you’re not a celebrity. So you need to go all out to get the American people on board. Which creates the need for donors.’
A nod.
‘Most donors are big businessmen. They have their hands in many different pies. Some of them are, among other things, special risks insurers. They keep a tight grip on the global kidnapping market to make sure everything is running smoothly. Our handler already briefed us on the details of that particular industry. There’s middlemen who are in communication with the kidnappers themselves, to make sure no one goes overboard with their ransom demands. That keeps everyone profitable. The kidnappers make money through successful ransom payments, and the insurers make money by receiving more from their clients than they have to pay out.’
A nod.
‘But there was a slight problem. Someone in Nepal of all places had figured out how to exploit the system. An Indian man named Mukta, who used to be a Naxalite insurgent, figured out that there was a neat opportunity there. Because negotiations had to go smoothly with these firms, or there was no point taking out special risks insurance in the first place. It had to be a guaranteed transaction, which made the firms more likely to actually make the payments, and less likely to fret over the details. So, as soon as he figured out the script to get paid every single time, he started snatching foreigners left and right and siphoning huge ransom payments out of these big insurance firms.’
A nod.
‘And the middlemen weren’t able to contact him. They weren’t able to tell him he was way out of line. They couldn’t even find out who it was. Someone was ruining their profit margins by going rogue. Disrupting the whole goddamn industry. Everything had been chugging along in perfect harmony for long enough, but now this was threatening to ruin their business.’