The Aurora Conspiracies- Volume One

by Sam Nash

  “And yet, you wear no wedding ring, Mrs Arora.” He curved his body around towards her, enveloping her in his confidence.

  “We are separated.” Mary looked into his jet-black eyes. One inquisitive brow darted upwards, imploring her to elaborate. “It’s a long story.”

  Sensing her discomfort, he changed tack. “It is an unusual building, is it not? I am told it is called the Great Temple.” He was emboldened by her attentive nodding. “A temple to what, I wonder? It makes no reference to a specific faith or deity.” They craned their necks, examining the eroded limestone walls behind them.

  “Families of these big country houses used to build tombs for their departed in the style of miniature cathedrals. Calling them temples sounds friendlier than tomb or crypt. I don’t think they were built to worship any faith in particular. Just an ancestral resting place.” She leaned forwards to squint up at the sky beyond the arches. Not a single patch of blue could be seen. Dense cumulonimbus stacked like gigantic grey cauliflower florets, stretching right to the horizon. She sighed and shuffled back on the bench.

  “You should see some of our temples in India. They are spectacular.” He crossed his legs, resting both hands on his kneecap. “Particularly the ancient ones.”

  “I have visited the Kailasa Temple at Ellora.” Mary picked at a hangnail on the side of her thumb, inwardly lamenting the general shabbiness of her hands. She slipped them under her legs out of sight.

  “You have?” Karan’s surprise unhidden, untamed. “And what did you think of our sacred treasure, carved out of the solid rock face?” He sported a smirk that was born in the golden palaces of the Rajah; moulded and refined and then passed from father to son through the generations.

  “I thought it was an incredible testament to the ingenuity of your people and a fitting shrine to Shiva.” She tipped her head to one side. “But I was saddened by the damage and erosion. I know that it is over thirteen hundred years old, but I think more could be done to preserve what remains.”

  For a full minute, Karan was mute. His initial treatment of Mary was one of disingenuous tourist. She knew that he had classified her as an English rose playing with a culture that she had no hope of understanding. Marrying into an exotic adventure, then tiring of her quest as soon as she spied Big Ben and Westminster Palace. Now his puzzled look made her think that he wasn’t so sure. “And what was your favourite part of Cave Sixteen?” He said, half-closing his eyes. It was a challenge. He expected her to stumble. To divert attention as she slid, embarrassed into an information void, or offer a fudged rehash of facts already mentioned.

  “Hmm. Tricky question.” Mary frowned. Why was he grinning so? She continued, a little perturbed. “I think it has to be the smell. Old musk, warm sand and ancient dust. That’s if you are standing far enough away from the other sweaty tourists. The atmosphere felt surreal, like it was suspended in time. Only the flapping noise of American flip-flops to spoil the serenity.”

  Karan listened to her in a trance. She was no ordinary English rose, there was a beguiling quality about her drawing him in. Mary turned the attention to him. “Have you visited much of England? How do you like our country?”

  He observed the curve of her mouth as she spoke. It distracted him from formulating a more guarded reply. “I was educated here. England will always have a place in my heart.” As he said it, he placed his nimble hand on his chest and beamed. It was as if Mary had chipped away at his pretentious carapace to glimpse a fraction of the man inside. Her slow blink and beatific smile informed him of her discovery. “But of course, it is nothing compared to my homeland.” His recovery too little, too late. “Do you do much travelling?” He was rambling now; caught off guard.

  “My ex-husband and I travelled all over the place for an entire year when we were younger, but not so much now. How about you?”

  “It’s part of the job, although my destinations tend to be the same – UN Ambassador… you know how it is…”

  Mary nodded, but could think of nothing to add.

  “In fact, I am off again in a few days, The United Nations at New York this time.”

  “Oh, Parth and I stayed quite close to the UN when we went. There’s a lovely little international delicatessen…”

  “On the corner of Fortieth Street and Second?” He treated her to the most luscious grin.

  Mary dissolved into his allure. “That is incredible. Of all the delis in all the world.” They chuckled together. “It was the only place I could find decent tea.”

  The deep roar of an engine, approached from their right, revving and wheel spinning in the boggier ruts of the track. It broke the spell. They watched as it pulled in close to the temple arches. The tinted windows lowered, allowing sight of a diminutive Indian man, sitting next to the driver.

  “Ah, we have found you, Shrimant Shinde. Sir, your presence is requested in the conference room.” The little man opened the high door of the black Range Rover and jumped down into the mud. Placing his hands together, he bowed low and remained there in the rain waiting for a response.

  “It appears that I am needed, Mrs Arora.” Karan stood up and adjusted his kurta, checking the lower buttons were fully fastened.

  “Please, call me Mary.” She looked at his fine clothing and simple tan leather mules and thought how much taller he looked than when they first met.

  He lingered for a moment, and then he said, “Would you like a lift back to the main house? This rain looks set to bother us all afternoon.” He tucked his arms behind his back, weaving his fingers together to prevent himself from offering Mary a hand.

  “Thank you. That is most kind.” Mary headed to the rear of the car where the small Indian chap was holding open the door.

  It was a short, quiet and bumpy journey, along the outskirts of the park and joining up with the main drive to the front entrance. Mary held onto the roof handle with one hand and steadied herself against the backseat with the other, keeping her attention on the windscreen to ward off motion sickness. Karan sat with his hands folded in his lap, regarding her every move and expression with curiosity.

  The burly driver switched off the ignition. He removed his seatbelt and hopped out to assist Mary as she climbed down from the four by four vehicle. Karan alighted from the opposite side, muttering instructions to Gupta, his private secretary. They scurried up the stone steps to the entrance hall and out of the endless rain.

  “Will I see you at dinner tonight, Mary?” They were standing next to the central table. Several delegates stopped their conversations to observe their discourse.

  Eager to be rid of the spotlight, she said. “Yes, um…Shrimant Shinde.” Mary grappled with the Indian pronunciation that she had picked up from Gupta. “I have been asked to attend this evening.”

  “To you, Mary, I am Karan. I look forward to the pleasure of your company tonight.” He bowed, then turned on his heels. As he and his secretary made their way towards the conference table in the library, Mary overheard Karan mumble to Gupta. “Make sure I am seated at her table tonight.”

  Chapter Six

  A string ensemble played Schubert and Debussy in the Great Hall. Mary fidgeted in her silver lace gown and borrowed stilettoes that had found their way to the attic during her walk in the grounds. Yelena arrived, resplendent in black velvet which bore a slit that reached high on her thigh. Her long stride revealed the length of her bronzed and shapely leg, causing a stir amongst the more conservative delegates in the gathering crowd.

  “You found the diamanté combs I put in the bottom of garment bag?” Yelena pushed Mary’s shoulder, twisting her sideways to see the cascade of dark curls pinned back by the jewelled hair combs. “Hmm. Good.” She let go of Mary. “Where did you go? I woke up and you were gone?”

  “For a walk in the grounds.” Mary knew she should feel grateful to Yelena; to be thankful for the protection and assistance she had received since discovering her MI6 status. Every time she looked into those piercing green eyes, the name Alexi hamme
red as a shrill warning inside her head.

  “In the rain? You must have been desperate to avoid Parth.” Yelena turned on Parth with a scowl that could blister paint. “What have you done this time to upset my friend?” He shrugged, pulling at his cuffs beneath his dinner jacket and grabbing a cocktail from a passing waiter.

  They shuffled across the marble floor and analysed the seating plan posted on a large board suspended on an A frame next to the saloon doors. Ten large circles drawn in equidistant rows with eight labelled rectangles, denoting place names, surrounding them. Yelena picked at a conspicuous alteration to the label next to Mary’s seat. A slip of typed paper had been glued over the original name. A Shrimant Karan Shinde was now placed to Mary’s right, with Parth sitting to her left. Mary deflected. “Gosh, look… we are sitting across from a Lord and Lady.” Her finger traced the names around the circle. “Oh, and the Minister for Defence and his wife. I’m sure he will be riveting.”

  Parth glanced over at the board, studying the names of their party. “Shrimant Shinde?” He almost choked on his Pimm’s concoction, swallowing his mouthful in a hurry.

  “You know this person?” Yelena gawked at Parth, who seemed to be in a state of apoplexy.

  Parth coughed. “No, not personally. I know of him. His royal bloodline that is.” He stepped away from the board, leaning around the saloon doors to peer at their table. “No one is seated yet.”

  The gold panelled doors of the White Drawing Room opened and the Prime Minister, on the arm of her husband, led the party of dignitaries across the Grand Hall and into the dining hall. Behind her, Shrimant Karan Shinde, glided elegantly in his silken finery, talking with an elderly lady in a florid pink, ruffled dress. “Would you excuse me, Lady Agatha?” Karan stopped in the doorway and turned to Mary. “Ms Arora, may I escort you in to dinner?”

  Glowing a similar shade of pink to Lady Agatha’s dress, Mary stumbled on her heels, then tucked her hand beneath Karan’s proffered arm. Yelena sucked in her lips to suppress a giggle. Parth was transfixed in a combination of shock and fury.

  “Shall we?” Yelena chuckled, taking Parth by the elbow and filing into the saloon with the other VIP’s.

  Mock pillars supported the ornate carved architrave above the numerous sets of antlers mounted on dark peach walls. An extravagance of decorative panels, rampant lions and embossed flourishes overpowered the simple delicacy of the furniture therein. The ten round tables were set with fragile porcelain and lead crystal glassware. Karan held the back of Mary’s chair as she settled, before offering the same service to Lady Agatha on his right. Parth remembered his manners, seating Yelena politely, before taking his place next to Mary.

  Hasty and bumbling introductions were made, followed by an adroit and economical welcome speech from the Prime Minister. The wine waiter directed the first taste to Karan, who sipped with distinguished aplomb before nodding his approval. Mary placed her hand across the opening of her glass, requesting juice in place of the alcohol. The diners sat in awkward restraint, sipping the Agrapart, Les 7 Crus Brut and tracking the lithe waitresses as they darted between tables like a school of porpoises swimming with the fleet.

  The head waiter arrived announcing the dish. “A confit of salmon with lemon verbena, orchard apple and sorrel. Enjoy.”

  Mary tipped backwards, waving her hand ineffectually by her shoulder. “Excuse me. Hello?” The waiter retreated, preparing to repeat the performance with the next table.

  Karan dove in. “Young man…” His voice warm and smoky with a power born of privilege. The waiter retraced his steps and leaned into the Indian nobleman. “I believe this lady was attempting to ask you something.” The waiter aimed his entire body in Mary’s direction, feigning interest.

  “Thank you, yes. Please may I have the vegetarian option?” It was a reasonable request, but one that seem to evoke a look of distain in the waiter. Mary glanced around her. Those seated nearby listened keenly, using the opportunity to inspect the woman on the Prince’s arm.

  “Certainly madam.” He waved towards one of the waitresses, who immediately removed Mary’s plate and scurried in the direction of the kitchen.

  “I’ll have the same.” Karan announced, diverting the prurient attention from his new friend to himself.

  Their plates of salmon were replaced by ones of tiny filo pastry tarts with goat’s cheese, onion veloute and garnished with a deep crimson nasturtium flower. Mary hesitated, admiring the artistry in the composition of the dish. Karan smashed the filo in two with a weighty knife and consumed the entire dish in four mouthfuls.

  Parth left his salmon to cool, its pallid flesh oxidising to a sickly grey. He eye-balled Mary and Karan, simpering and giggling together and conversing in hushed tones. Sinking the remainder of his wine, he stretched out his arm along the back of Mary’s chair. “How do you two know each other?”

  Mary recoiled from Parth’s encroaching limb. She was under no obligation to explain her meeting with Karan, but the inquisitive faces around the table compelled her. “I almost trod on him in the Temple earlier today.”

  Parth poured himself another glass, glowering at Karan and wrinkling his nose in contempt. “There’s a temple?” He drank again. Not timid sips to match those of his dinner companions, but great gulps of irate distress.

  “A Doric temple in the grounds by the lake.” Mary leaned across to Parth and whispered, “Don’t you think you should slow down a bit?” Her remark was met with an enforced smile, then a slow, deliberate grab at the bottle. Parth poured. Everyone around the table observed as the pale amber liquid glugged and splashed, filling his glass to the brim. Lady Agatha elbowed her husband in the ribs, putting an abrupt halt to his vociferous amusement.

  “How is the conference going?” Mary asked of Karan, before pushing her knife and fork together on her plate.

  Shrimant Karan Shinde dabbed his napkin to his mouth. “Very well, thank you. We are bound by confidentiality, so I cannot elaborate, but suffice to say that progress is being made.” He flashed his perfect teeth at Lady Agatha, who melted into a pool of fluttering lashes and giddy murmurs.

  The main course arrived. Roasted duck with hot blackberries and garden chard, and wild mushroom tortellini for Karan and Mary. Scents of warm oaken fungi with the piquant sage and butter sauce crowded her senses.

  Karan looked on, as she attacked the dish with vigour. “I have not seen you or Dr Arora at the conference table. How is it that you are here?”

  The Defence Minister shot Parth with a steely warning glare. It bounced off him without a dent. Mary opened her mouth to give a vague response but Parth chipped in first. “We came to prove Mary’s remarkable ability to make free drugs by imprinting pure water. Hell, she can create any chemical that she can lay her hands on.”

  “Arora, that’s enough!” The Minister growled. “You are in breach of the Official Secrets Act.” He was all white bristles and puckered flesh. His wife patted his arm and reminded him of his high blood pressure.

  “Wait.” Karan pondered for a moment, curious to learn more. “Everyone at Ditchley is constrained by that Act, so there can be no harm in disclosure, providing the information is not shared outside this building.” Karan looked towards Lady Agatha and her nodding husband, then back to the Defence Minister. Unsure of the protocol, the minister retrieved his mobile phone from a pocket and excused himself from the table to make a call. Karan exploited his absence. “Tell me more about this amazing lady by my side.”

  Before the minister returned, Parth had recounted all the experiments he had ever conducted involving Mary in precise detail, making sure to emphasise his own brilliance in discovering her abilities. He listed her skillset as though it was part of an interview for a job. Her extraordinary aptitude in synchronising her brainwaves with other people, allowing her to read their minds. The ability to combine that gift with her talent for out of body experiences, giving her a unique capability to take control of another person’s nervous system.

  Ma
ry cringed. Parth was revelling in her anguish. It was little over six weeks since she was forced to use her gifts against her will to preserve his life. Mary took no pleasure in manipulating people. Bracing herself for the explanation of her last and most destructive talent, Mary cradled her head in her hands and held her breath.

  “Her best attribute is her ability to dispense an electromagnetic pulse directly from her hands. Dialled down to miniscule frequencies, she can transfer digital signatures from compounds into pure water. At the other extreme, she can fry circuitry or even defibrillate a man dying from a heart attack.” Parth slurred the last few words of the sentence, but his eyes glowed with the vindictiveness that was spawned by their broken marriage.

  Mary caught Yelena’s eye, delivering a look that implored her to put a stop to the spectacle. She was not an after-dinner cabaret act. Yelena shrugged then observed the faces of the three conspirators on the opposite side of the table as Parth spoke. Mary could feel the collective weight of their intentions to make her prove the claims. They would use their high rank and status to intimidate her into performing for them, to validate Parth’s assertions. Karan led the charge, spurred on by Lady Agatha. Their features altering from doubt to incredulity and finally to astonished acceptance after urging Mary to change the table water into Lady Agatha’s perfume. This she did with a bullied compliance.

  Karan addressed the minister, with some consternation, the moment he returned to the table. “Why was this not included in the conference agenda?” He waited for an explanation. The minister said nothing. “Mary’s ability could save millions of lives. This has to be discussed as a matter of urgency.” Still nothing. “If you won’t raise it as a priority, I will.”

  “Shrimant Shinde. With respect, this is an internal matter, not one for international debate. We have a team of people looking into the validity and applications of Arora’s claims. It is not for public consumption.” The minister’s attempts at charm fell short.