by D.I. Telbat
Chapter Six – The Problem
"You must bathe in the river, my friend. The positive energy could give you luck for the rest of your life."
Corban acted like he was considering the Mumbaikar's words about bathing in India's Ganges River, but he had other things on his mind. Besides, he didn't believe in luck or positive energy from dirty water. The Hindu man moved on through the crowd—one man in a throng of millions—but Corban remained on the edge of the river.
He'd arrived in Haridwar in northern India during the Kumbh Mela pilgrimage, the world's largest religious festival. Hindu believers stripped down to their underclothes and walked into the cold water. It was to be done before dawn, but now, two hours after dawn, the shoreline was indistinguishable through the brown bodies and excited visitors. On the sloped bank where Corban stood, he could see several hundred thousand people pressing shoulder to shoulder in or out of the filthy water, which swirled around temple towers, their very foundations built on the bed of the river.
"You need to be high on Vishnu and gonja to get in that water," an Australian man's voice said. Corban turned to see a middle-aged man wearing a long-sleeved kurta. He'd arrived in a rickshaw, the runner panting heavily nearby. "I came as you asked."
Corban didn't offer his hand. He wasn't sure if the press of bodies was actually dangerous or if they served as a safety net. Whoever was hunting him could already be in the city—maybe even posing as one of the local snake charmers, vendors, or Hindu gewgaws who worked the crowd.
"Where's the girl?" While Corban continued to keep watch for an enemy, he glanced at the Australian agent, an ASIS specialist. Alan Doutrice wasn't an enemy, but he wasn't necessarily a friend, either. The man was more loyal to money than to country, and his connections to the underworld of India had been called upon more than a few times by Corban through the years. "One phone call, and the money is transferred."
"It won't help you even if you do know where the girl is." Alan stepped out of the rickshaw. The rickshaw owner plodded off, squeezing through a wave of hermits who had apparently sworn off wearing clothing in exchange of wearing wreaths and garlands of marigolds. "I feel almost guilty for taking your money. Almost. The girl is safer than the gold in your Fort Knox."
"A kidnapped American is hardly safe here!" Corban said through clenched teeth. "Just tell me what I need to know."
"The girl is held in there—see the gray tower? The Sadhus holds court from there. His followers are countless. There are one hundred million Hindus attending Kumbh Mela in four cities in the next fifty-five days. She'll be impossible to recover."
Using the height that the slope gave him to see over the throng, Corban stared at a thirty-foot tall round building, a walkway circling it six feet above the river surface. What looked like Christmas lights were strung in a tangle around its roof. The mass of humanity seemed to fill every inch of the water, but they gave wide berth to the tower.
He took in these details before he noticed three men in blazers on the walkway. Though their guns weren't visible, he was sure they were armed, concealing them under their jackets. It seemed they were bodyguards.
"Tell me about this Sadhus man."
"A Sadhus is a holy man, not a name. But this one is known as the Sadhus. He controls more worshippers in this region than any other Sadhus. With a word, he can muster one thousand Hindus, or even a million. That's why it's impossible to get the girl out. The police won't even touch the Sadhus."
"Let me worry about getting her out. It's just the three outside?" Corban didn't need to disguise his gaze. He was a face amongst a sea of faces. "How many inside?"
"At least five, usually. I don't know for sure. You just called me two days ago. I don't know everything."
"You've told me enough." Corban looked away from the river. A Caucasian face caught his eye, then it was lost in the crowd. He recognized the face from the Paris airport. "You'd better leave. I've got it from here. If I need—"
But Alan Doutrice was already gone, apparently trusting Corban to make the payment as agreed. One last time, Corban measured the dimensions of the Hindu tower where the girl was being held, then moved up the bank past all the chatting and crying Indians.
He wasn't tall enough to see over all those around him, but if he could get high enough up the slope . . . As he weaved through the swarm of bodies, he took off his jacket and bent down to dip his hand into a puddle. Hoping it was mud, he dabbed some onto his face and into his hair. His features sufficiently altered for the moment, he turned and climbed the cement stairs built into the slope, until he could look down at the throng. It took mere seconds to spot the hunter-tracer team. They were light-skinned and fully clothed, so they stood out in the half-naked crowd of brown bodies. Two others looked familiar from Paris as well, but their attention was directed elsewhere. They had to be part of a hunter-tracer team, and that meant Corban's plans in India just became much more complicated.
Members of the H-T team were separately converging on a tall muscled black man. Corban guessed he was over fifty. The tall man wore a tan suit without a tie, and carried a small bag, as if he'd recently arrived in town. He was definitely the baggage man from Paris, identified by the scar—a killer who apparently didn't realize he was about to be killed himself. The agents were moving like a pride of lions toward their prey. There was no question as to their intent towards the tall black man.
The man who Chloe had said was a Brit stood in the very place Corban had been just ten minutes earlier, next to another rickshaw. For a hunter-tracer team—or possibly two teams—to be on Corban's trail so soon, he surmised they were government sponsored and not merely independent mercenary teams. Private assassins could be resourceful, but not as rapidly deployed as these.
At the moment, at least, the agents weren't aware that Corban was present. Instead of remaining exposed on the elevated steps, he chose to lose himself in the press of bodies closer to the riverbank, even though it drew him nearer to the agents. When he reached the river, he squeezed through the bathers until he found himself directly below the Brit from Paris. Now so close, when the black man looked at Corban, there was unmistakable recognition on his face. Seeing the man straight on, Corban memorized his face and features so he could identify him later in an Agency database. If the man even lived through the morning. And since Corban was just getting to know this man, it wouldn't do to see him killed. After all, Corban was in India to save a life, not to lead one to his death.
Corban turned his head and nodded at the nearest agents approaching the black man. The man seemed to understand the signal. He glanced around at the near-ambush, then darted into the crowd and was instantly in the water up to his waist. Fascinated by the man's speed, Corban watched as the Brit abandoned his bag, then disappeared in the polluted water.
Now Corban was close to being noticed by the other agents. He crouched as they passed him, pursuing as a pack of wolves after the Brit in the water. In a moment, Corban was back on the stairs, about to leave the river scene completely. Though he knew he should leave, Corban remained mesmerized on the set of steps, admiring the crafty Brit's escape from harm. In the same situation, it was exactly what Corban himself would've done, he thought.
Farther out in the river, people were parting mysteriously. The man was but a shadow beneath the surface, seen only from Corban's elevation, but not by the team on the bank who were still searching the crowd for the Brit. Before they spotted Corban as well, he slipped over the hilltop onto a busy street. As he moved into the city, he smiled. He was about to secure his future, and yet, he had just given a killer a very difficult decision to make. Would the man return the gesture and stop hunting him?
When Corban reached his hotel, he checked out and walked to a backup site—a parked rental car amongst a row of commuter cars. In the driver's seat, he prayed for guidance. He was there to save Kimberly Dench's life, but suddenly he was inclined to save another: the man who was trying to kill him.
Setting his laptop in the pass
enger seat, he logged into a server in Mumbai and got to work. It was going to be a long night.
*~*