The Aurora Conspiracies- Volume One

by Sam Nash

  “If the British government are not going to take this seriously, Indian authorities will.” Karan turned to Mary. “You would be treated with dignity and respect in Mumbai. You are welcome to stay at my residence, or in one of my hotels, at any time.” Mary pulled her gaze from his hypnotic eyes and stared at the remnants of the tortellini. The joint attention of those around the table increased her skin temperature to unbearable.

  “Nevertheless, Mary is our responsibility. I want your assurance that you will not take this matter any further, Shinde.” The minister’s deliberate discourtesy in referring to the nobleman by his surname jarred the innate affability of all those present. He repelled Lady Agatha’s seething scowl as though it was pitched at a Sunday afternoon cricket match.

  Karan examined the Defence Minister. The pouched chin and ruddy cheeks, the hooded lids shielding eyes as dead as his compassion. This was no marionette for the Prime Minister. No box ticking cabinet imp, but a rogue automaton with corrupt programming. Karan backed down with a polite nod and a strained smile.

  Dessert was a choice between a chocolate and hazelnut mille-feuille or warm pomegranate, carrot and pistachio cake with vanilla cream. The minister chose both, ordering the waiter to bring a bottle of 1980 Samos Nectar to accompany his victory. Mary picked at the carrot cake, scraping the buttercream frosting off with the side of her fork and stacking the dissected pomegranate seeds into a tiny heap on the plate. The vanilla cream tickled the back of her throat, making her gag. With a sip of her juice, she lay down the dessert fork and pushed the dish away.

  “Are you well, Mary?” Yelena leaned forwards and deposited her linen napkin on the table. “You look very pale. Would you like for us to get a little fresh air before the cheese arrives?”

  “That is a good idea.” Mary excused herself as Karan, Lady Agatha’s husband and the minister rose from their seats gallantly. Parth spun his head around in random and jagged motions, one eyelid falling closed. As he finally caught up with events and stood up, Karan sat back down.

  “If you’ll excuse me also, ladies, gentlemen. I have an important matter to attend to.” The minister touched his wife’s shoulder, then slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket and was dialling a number on his mobile before he had reached the saloon doors. Mary and Yelena sat together on a worn red velvet chaise. They watched the minister as he hurried through the Great Hall and into White Drawing Room, growling into his phone.

  The Environment Minister came scurrying out of the saloon, the loud rustle of her taffeta dress hissing as she walked. A smart phone was pressed to her ear. She too, entered the drawing room, slamming the door closed after her.

  “I think this could be… how do you say… the calm before the storm?” Yelena looked at her friend, who was slowly retreating into the cushions with an alarmed expression. The more Mary looked at Yelena, the more she heard warnings inside her head. After all, Yelena had unwittingly disclosed her ties to the terrorist responsible for the Alaskan affair.

  Moments later, four armed officers strode across the hall and joined the ministers behind the closed door.

  Yelena looked troubled. She turned to her friend and said, “I think you should collect Parth and start packing your belongings.”

  Mary jumped up and headed towards the Dining Hall.

  “And, Mary…”

  She stopped and turned to Yelena.

  “Whatever you hear about me, remember that I am always on your side.”

  Mary’s eyes broadened, and her chest pounded. It was as though Yelena had sensed Mary’s doubt. Had she pretended to be asleep to drop Alexi’s name on purpose? Why would Yelena want Mary to know about her duplicity? There was no time to ponder her hypothesis. She hurried into the saloon and whispered into Parth’s ear that they needed to leave.

  “What on earth for? I’m starting to enjoy myself?” He tipped the port into his glass and shovelled another wedge of cheese into his mouth.

  “Please, Parth, don’t argue with me. We have to leave now.” Mary threaded her hand under his arm and tried to lift him from his seat. He yanked his arm away.

  Karan frowned at her strange behaviour. “Is there a problem, Mary? Can I be of assistance?” Mary glanced first at Karan, and then at the others seated at her table. Each expressed a look of pity.

  “No, thank you. Everything is fine.” Leaving Parth to his excesses, Mary left the Dining Room, rushed through the Great Hall and ascended the grand central staircase as hastily as her heels would allow. As she entered their bedroom, her mobile phone chimed. The notification popped up on the screen.

  Taxi is on its way. Will pick you up at gatehouse. Y. x

  Balancing her hands on the back of her head, Mary blew out a cathartic breath. Okay. Stay calm and think. Get changed, pack essentials only and go back for Parth. Not that he deserves to be rescued. She stripped off Yelena’s gown, chucked it on the bed and slithered into her jeans, a long-sleeved cotton top and trainers. Shoving the mobile phone into her back pocket, she tucked a pair of clean knickers and her toothbrush into the inside pouch of her satchel and slung the strap across her body.

  Mary hovered next to Parth’s bed. His day clothes were strewn across the coverlet. She picked up the trousers and slid her hand into the pockets, retrieving Parth’s black leather wallet. He must have his phone on him. She opened the wallet and checked the contents. Good. He’s been to a cash point. We will need that.

  With Parth’s wallet safely stowed in her satchel, Mary left the servants’ quarters and jogged down to the first floor. Taking the back staircase, she alighted at the west hallway as before, but instead of leaving the building, she crept along the corridor to the front of the mansion. Edging near to the Great Hall, Mary spotted Karan. He smiled, then frowned and walked towards her. “I came to see that you were alright.” He took in her casual clothes and tense body language. “You are not alright. What is going on?”

  “Please can you convince Parth to come out here to meet me?” She was clutching the door frame, her shoulders hunched up to her ears. Her brow ruffled with concern.

  “I can, but tell me was has happened. You look set to leave.” Karan raised his hand to touch her shoulder, but left it hanging an inch from her body before retracting his arm. His face crumpled as though he was chiding himself over a failure.

  “Karan, please can you do as I ask. We both need to leave before…” Mary’s voice trailed off as the Minster for Defence appeared in the Great Hall with the four armed men. Karan snapped his head around, his mental arithmetic adding up to extreme peril.

  “Wait here.” Karan sped into the saloon while Mary and the minister stood some metres apart in a stare off. Keep your cool. Don’t let him see that you are rattled. Keep eye contact and he is less likely to approach. Despite her internal pep talk, she was rattled. She set her jaw to rigid and tipped her head to one side. Karan corralled Parth out from between the circular tables into the hall.

  “You cannot keep us here.” Mary raised her voice so that delegates within earshot could rise to her defence if the minister made a move.

  Karan pushed Parth closer and then slipped his card into Mary’s hand. “Call if you need anything.” He whispered. “Take care of yourself, first and foremost.”

  Pocketing the card, Mary maintained her sight of the minister. Even at that distance, Mary could tell his pupils were fixed and dilated and his smug grin static. For a few fractious seconds, the frequency of her mind bonded with his. Along with a violent wave of nausea, she heard his thoughts. Run if you want to, little lady. You’ll be dead inside twenty-four hours.

  Chapter Seven

  The shock of learning the minister’s order for her death broke her concentration. There was a moment of frozen hostility as realisation docked in her mind. Grabbing the fabric of Parth’s sleeve, she dragged him through the hall to the main entrance. “Stop it. What are you doing?” Parth tried to brush her off, but then he caught a glimpse of the four men unclipping the holsters of their weapons and
dashing after them.

  The large oak door was open. They sprinted through and down the wide steps to the gravel drive, taking a straight route across the oval lawn. The soles of Parth’s dress shoes slipped on the wet grass. He stumbled, but miraculously righted himself, catching up with Mary as she passed the wrought iron gates. The grassland beyond was tougher going. Rabbit holes and tufted weeds, combined with their undigested meal, slowed them down. In the twilight, Mary could make out the shape of the gatehouse through the trees in the distance. Her lungs were burning, and she could taste the remnants of her tortellini dancing in her throat.

  A diagonal route across the parkland took them back to the main drive. Mary could hear Parth wheezing behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder at him. The four men were closing in on them. “Why aren’t they shooting at us?” Parth yelled between puffs.

  “Because Karan is a witness. Gunshots would still be heard from the main house. I can see the taxi, Parth. Run!” The gravel crunched and skittered as they bolted towards the limestone walls of the cottage and to the idling Vauxhall at the gates.

  The gatehouse was illuminated by a solitary desk lamp, perched on the edge of the visitor hatch. Mary squinted as she approached. The guard was not sitting at his station. Whether it was luck or the machinations of Yelena, Mary thanked the heavens and unlatched the pedestrian gate, leaving it to swing free in her wake.

  Suddenly sober, Parth darted to the car and opened the rear door. Mary launched herself into the backseat. “Drive! Quick…go!” Parth tumbled in after her and slammed the door. The vehicle pulled away at speed, just as the armed officers reached the boot of the car. Mary turned to look out of the back window. One man knelt and aimed his gun at the taxi. A second man held his hand aloft, ordering the gunman to lower his weapon.

  The driver analysed his passengers in the rear view mirror. “What did you do? Did you steal something? Why are they after you? Did that man have a gun?”

  Mary was panting heavily. She strapped herself in and hugged her satchel to her chest. “Get us to Oxford Station in thirty minutes and I will double the fare.” She looked over at Parth. He was holding his ribs and gasping in air with a pained expression scored across his face. Within five minutes of the journey, the driver had switched on the air conditioning to combat the steamy windows and Parth had recovered enough to speak.

  “What would have happened if they had caught us?” His chin wobbled as he spoke, rendering his speech thin and feeble.

  “You know precisely what would have happened. Keep quiet. Don’t say anything that could hinder our escape.” She flicked her head towards the driver, who was watching them intermittently with the road via the mirror. Mary dislodged her mobile phone from her back pocket and touched her thumb to the home button to unlock the device. One thing her recent ordeals had taught her was the value of smartphones in retaining independence. She swiped through the pages of applications, locating the tiny turquoise square for the railway application. Once launched, Mary typed in the station name and made a mental note of the potential platforms and times.

  The signal dipped, freezing the screen just as she was booking tickets. Mary clenched her fist, thumping her rigid arm on her leg. Her mouth pursed, before letting out an exasperated snarl.

  Parth looked at her. “We can buy tickets at the station.” The signal returned. She flung him a look that said, do shut up, Parth, there’s a good chap, and continued to order her single tickets and travel passes. Resting the phone on the backseat, she unlatched her bag and removed Parth’s wallet, slipping out his debit card.

  “Hey! What are you doing with my wallet?”

  Keeping the card, she hurled the wallet into his lap. “You got us into this mess, you can pay to get us out of it.” Mary thumbed his card number into the screen, turning the plastic over to read the security number on the back. Memorising the transaction code, she twisted her hips and replaced the phone and card in her back pocket.

  The taxi drove slowly past the large covered cycle racks and up to the taxi rank in front of the main entrance. Mary jumped out of the right-hand side of the vehicle, instructing Parth to pay the man double the tariff shown on the clock. Grumbling, Parth pulled the notes out from his wallet and counted them into the driver’s hand.

  Parth scurried after Mary, tucking the wallet into his inside jacket pocket and hurrying up the steps leading to the entrance. When he reached the foyer inside, Mary had already inserted his card into a machine and was jabbing the transaction code into the screen. As the tickets were printed, Mary turned to look at the digital displays mounted high in the roof space of the modern building.

  “Platform One, five minutes.” She turned, opened the clear plastic flap at the bottom of the machine and scooped up the orange rectangles of card.

  “Where are we going?” Parth rocked back on his feet then propelled himself forward after her. “Slow down!” He peered at another display. It said, Platform One – 22:30 to London Paddington – On time. Mary handed him the outgoing ticket as they approached the exit to platforms. A solitary Transport Police Officer stood at the edge of the ticket barriers. He was muttering into the radio attached to his fluorescent tabard, his fingers squeezing the button as he spoke. His eyes darted to every passenger passing through the gates. Mary breezed through, slipping the ticket into the slot and catching it from the dispenser before the barriers opened.

  Parth bungled the procedure. He inserted the ticket and walked through without catching it, the solid gates banging shut before he could back track and retrieve the cardboard pass. On the other side, Parth hopped about in a panic, drawing attention from the crowd. He tried to indicate to the next passenger to grab his ticket for him. Mary flushed hot as the traffic cop sauntered over to the gate and approached Parth.

  Dear God. The man is a liability. I should have left him with the Defence Minister. I could have been clear away by now. Mary looked at the stream of people heading towards Platform One, and then back at her husband. Parth smiled, apologised and began tucking his shirt into his waistband, adjusting the cummerbund over his dress shirt. Mary grimaced. He could not have looked more conspicuous if he tried. Holding her breath, Mary stood petrified as the officer leaned across the gate and pulled the ticket from the machine, handing it to Parth.

  “Happens all the time, sir. Have a good journey.”

  Parth prattled his gratitude in relief, and then sprinted after Mary towards the waiting train. Aboard, the whistle blown, and paddle waved, they found a table seat in the penultimate carriage and settled down. Mary took the forward facing seat and balanced her satchel on the table. She took out her phone and returned the debit card to its owner. Parth was still puffing from his exertions. Taking a small bottle of water from her bag, Mary handed it to Parth. He took a long swig and then offered it to her. She shook her head, her eyelids slowly closing over her rolling eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” His hand compressed the plastic bottle, making the contents spill onto his leg. He twisted the cap closed.

  “Do you even know what you are sorry for?” The corners of her mouth tightened over her teeth, revealing fierce dimples.

  He took a long breath, exhaling through his nose and rubbing his temple with two fingertips. “Right now, I am sorry for the way that you look at me.” His cheeks sagged, dragging his eyelids down into a hang-dog, tearful façade.

  “Can you blame me? All you have done for the last two months is use me to further your career. Can’t you see how much damage your selfishness has caused?” It gushed out of her. A great surge of anger and bitterness that allied with the vicious nightly flashbacks to impede sleep. “You used me, Parth. Your own wife. What is wrong with you?”

  Parth reduced his voice to a whiny hush. “I thought I was helping everyone get what they wanted.” He took another glug of water.

  “What you wanted, you mean. I have never known anyone who would sacrifice their spouse in the pursuit of a Nobel Prize.” She turned her face to the window. The black shapes
flew past, partly obscured by the rippled reflections of the passengers and furniture inside the carriage. The dim yellow lighting made her squint. Parth had no rebuttal for her accusation. She could tell he was sitting there, with his head resting in his hands, pondering a way to get her back on side. There were few people travelling to London in Coach B. The loud thrum of the diesel engine and the high-pitched squeals of the grating carriage joints dominated the journey.

  Mary’s ears popped entering a long tunnel. Everyone swallowed and cleared their throat, and then the lights flickered. She looked between the head rests at a man in slacks and a denim shirt pressing his palms to his ears and opening his jaw wide. The lights failed, throwing them into complete darkness. For one moment, Mary felt relief. They were in an enclosed tube, hurtling through the night towards the capital. No one could get to her. There were no more stops until Paddington. She slowed her breathing. Emergency lighting sprang into life, illuminating the exits and passageway. Mary closed her eyes, floating into the half sleep of childhood.

  There was an irritating buzz and a repetitive plinking noise. The fluorescent tube lights came back on, glowing pink through her eyelids. She opened one eye. Had she fallen asleep? She checked the time on her phone - 11.30pm. Blinking through her memory, she recalled the arrival time of the train. They had eight minutes. “Parth. There is every chance that, you know who, will send someone to meet us at the station. I thought we could simply book into a hotel with false names and pay cash, but they will have access to all surveillance cameras.” She leaned forward, resting her arms around her satchel on the table. “Think. Where can we go?”

  Parth stared at his ticket on the table, then tapped an index finger nervously. She slapped her hand on the table. “Who do you know in London?” He nodded, lowering his eyes to the table once more. A few more agonising seconds and his face lit up.