Ben Hope

Chapter 7

Prem threw himself behind the wheel of the limousine and fired up the engine, as whisper-quiet as an electric motor and totally insulated from the outside world. Then they were off, and within minutes were carving straight into the hustle and bustle of the vast metropolis that made the hubbub of London, Paris and Moscow seem like ghost towns by comparison. The density of the traffic was insane and the muffled honking of horns all around sounded like distant herds of angry elephants as the huge Maybach nosed its way down wide, leafy boulevards crammed nose to tail with vehicles and narrower streets that were so congested it seemed impossible that the traffic could ever get flowing again. Cyclists, mopeds, pedal rickshaws and little green and yellow tuk-tuk three-wheeler vans were everywhere, weaving among the sea of vehicles and darting across lanes with as little regard for the rules of the road as for their own safety.

If anything, the pavements were even more densely packed. They heaved with a thronging morass of people, people, and more people everywhere. To Ben’s eyes it seemed the city’s populace must have recovered at least fivefold from the dark days of Indian government population control in the 1970s, when armed troops rounded up citizens in the streets of Delhi for transportation to forced sterilisation camps, with the open approval of Western leaders. Now, the multitude of crowds and sights and colours was almost overpoweringly rich. In the middle of it all were street vendors selling their wares, beggars sitting on steps, street kids running in hordes in search of things to get up to, feral-looking dogs scavenging around for scraps, a crazy kaleidoscope of buzzing urban diversity that was too much to take in at once. The morning sky was shrouded by grey smog that trapped the visibly intensifying heat haze, but the limo’s luxurious interior was as cool as an April day at Le Val.

Ben would have happily ridden in silence, but Prem wanted to talk. The car was so silent that he barely needed to raise his voice. ‘So you are a friend of the Ray family?’

‘I only really know Amal,’ Ben said. He added, ‘And his wife. I’m here at her invitation, to offer whatever assistance I can at this difficult time.’

‘A wonderful lady. So beautiful, so brilliant.’ Prem flashed a brief smile at Ben, then shook his head glumly. ‘Poor Mr Amal. Poor Mr Kabir. The family are very upset by these tragic happenings.’

‘Who are the other family members?’

Prem explained that there was a third brother, the eldest, Samarth Ray, who had taken over the family business from their father. Old Basu, the patriarch, was still alive and now lived with his wife Aparna in a secluded villa outside the city. Both were too elderly and too much in shock over recent events to leave their home. The original family residence in the southern part of Delhi was shared by the three brothers, who had divided it up into three separate apartments. ‘But with Mr Amal spending all his time in London and Mr Kabir so often travelling, Mr Samarth and his good lady live there alone mostly.’

‘I look forward to meeting Samarth,’ Ben said, dropping the obsequious ‘Mr’.

‘Oh, he is a great and wonderful man. A very, very important member of the business community here in Delhi, patron of the arts, and donates money to many charities.’

‘What line of business is he in?’

‘The Ray Group has built its empire on commercial real estate and hotels,’ Prem replied proudly. ‘They own much property in Delhi and elsewhere. Also steel and pharmaceuticals, and a construction division with many government contracts to develop new projects across the city. Mr Samarth is working even harder than ever now, because of the stress of the moment. It is his way of coping. I have two brothers myself. I cannot even imagine something so terrible.’

‘And Brooke?’

‘Miss Brooke has been staying in her and Mr Amal’s apartment within the residence. She is there now, waiting for your arrival. Traffic is not too bad today, so we will be there soon. Maybe forty minu— Oh, look at this damn one.’ Prem hit the brakes and had to swerve to avoid a motorbike that had squeezed past the Maybach and darted across their path. The rider, who seemed quite oblivious of how close he’d come to getting wiped out by five tons of car, had a young child riding on the pillion seat, another perched on the rear luggage rack, and a small toddler straddled across the tank in front of him.

‘That’s one way to get yourself and half your family killed,’ Ben observed.

‘Oh, life is very cheap in India,’ Prem said with a dry smile. ‘If you do not already know, you will soon see.’

Soon afterwards, they hit a broader boulevard where the traffic moved more smoothly and there were fewer suicidal motorists. The limo wafted along fast and silently with sweeping lawns and tree-lined canals on either side. ‘That is India Gate,’ said Prem, pointing. The arched monument towered over Delhi’s answer to the Champs-Élysées. ‘It was opened in 1931 to commemorate the sacrifices of Indian soldiers. But the government let it become filthy with rubbish. People are animals.’

Life is cheap and people are animals. Ben was getting the inside track. ‘I’m so happy to have you as my tour guide, Prem,’ he said. But Prem might have missed the sarcasm.

It wasn’t long before they left the big boulevards behind and came into a quieter, tree-lined residential area. Prem announced with great pride that this district of the city was the most prestigious and select place to live in all of India. Ben had already figured that out from the number of luxury cars and the impressive white houses he glimpsed tucked away within verdant gardens as they passed. Not a crippled beggar, street kid, stray dog, food stall or tuk-tuk in sight. Even the hazy grey smog seemed to have dissipated.

But such opulence had to be protected from the teeming masses outside. Prem stopped at a private security checkpoint while guards checked his entry pass before waving the car through. Ben had visited gated communities before, but seldom one where the guards looked like paramilitary troops and carried sawn-off shotguns and submachine guns on open display.

‘Only the very richest families can afford to live here,’ Prem declared as he moved on at a stately pace through the secluded, shade-dappled streets. ‘The Rays have been here since the 1920s, after Mr Basu’s father made his first fortune in land deals. He had arrived in Delhi just a few years earlier, with only some coins in his pocket.’

At last, Prem turned the Maybach off the road towards a driveway entrance barred by tall ornamental wrought-iron gates that were topped with spikes. Prem produced a small black remote device from his pocket, like a miniature phone with a ten-digit keypad. He pointed it through the windscreen towards the gates, and Ben saw his index fingertip enter the four-digit sequence 4-1-9-8. Which happened to be the same as the formula number for the Improved Military Rifle brand of smokeless gunpowder favoured by Tuesday at Le Val for brewing up his super-accurate .223 custom handloads.

The gates whirred aside to let them pass. Prem steered the limo up a long paved driveway that curved through what appeared to be a country park, filled with fruit trees and ornamental shrubs and a profusion of exotic flowers of more colours than Ben had names for.

He already had a pretty good idea of how wealthy Amal’s family must be, but the sight of the house was the final clincher. It was built on a palatial scale, classically modern and elegant in gleaming white stone with notes of marble here and there, all in the best taste that money could buy. Acres of windows overlooked emerald lawns where peacocks strutted majestically and the jets of sprinklers made rainbows in the sunlight.

‘Here we are,’ Prem said. ‘Welcome to the Ray residence.’

Stepping out of the car it was hard to believe that this tranquil paradise setting was situated right in the beating heart of the most polluted city on earth and the second most populous in Asia after only Tokyo, home to sixteen million people. Prem took Ben’s bag from the back of the car and waved him graciously towards the house.

‘Come, this way, please. I will take you to see Miss Brooke.’

Chapter 8

Now came the moment Ben had been so nervous about. Prem, whose duties seemed to include being head butler as well as the family chauffeur, led him into the house. Its interior was as cool as the Maybach, airy and sweetly scented by the flowers that filled every corner. The mosaic floors were marble, the art and furnishings were modern and without a doubt supremely expensive. A rich man’s dream abode, perhaps, but Ben couldn’t understand how anyone could live inside a multi-million-dollar show home.

The house felt empty. Nobody came to meet them as Prem led Ben inside. Ben asked, ‘Are Samarth and his wife at home?’

‘Oh, he will be at the office now. She is most likely taking a nap at this time of the morning.’ Eleven thirty, and the lady of the house was napping. Ben asked no more questions.

The elder brother’s private apartment was on the ground floor of the house, occupying what Prem called the west wing. The separate apartments belonging to Amal and Kabir were upstairs, on the first and second floors respectively. Prem escorted Ben up a sweeping marble double staircase with banister rails capped with gilt, then along about six miles of passages floored with handmade oriental rugs, until they reached the part of the house that comprised Amal’s personal quarters.

Prem said, ‘The apartment has three guest bedrooms. Would you like to inspect them before you choose the one you prefer?’

Ben wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in the house. ‘We’ll talk about my accommodation arrangements later. Where’s Brooke?’

As if in reply, Prem stopped at a door. He was about to knock, but before he could announce the visitor’s arrival the door opened, and there she stood framed in the entrance. Milky light from tall windows filled the room behind her.

‘Hello, Ben.’

‘Hello, Brooke. It’s been a while,’ he said.

‘Yes, it has,’ she replied.

Her hair had been shorter the last time they’d met. It had grown out again now, and hung in rich auburn curls past her shoulders. She’d lost a little weight and her face seemed more sculpted, if anything looking more attractive than Ben had ever seen her, despite the washed-out pallor of her fatigue and the dark shadows under her eyes. She was wearing a loose, sleeveless silk blouse and green satin trousers that matched her irises. She’d been crying.

Ben had known this would be an uncomfortable meeting. It couldn’t have been any other way. The atmosphere was heavy with tension. There was a long, awkward silence. Brooke was the one to break it, by saying politely, ‘Prem, our visitor might like some refreshments.’

Ben was so focused on Brooke that he’d forgotten Prem was still hovering at his shoulder. He shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine.’

‘Then you can leave us now, Prem, thank you.’

‘I’ll take the bag,’ Ben said, taking it from Prem’s hand. Prem seemed reluctant to go. Ben supposed that he must know, or had guessed, a certain amount about the backstory between them. He might be hoping to see some fireworks if he hung around.

Prem gave a courteous nod, muttered ‘If you’re sure there is nothing I can do for you,’ and took his leave.

They waited until he was gone before they spoke another word. Then waited longer, neither one knowing quite what to say now they were alone together. Ben gazed at her face, so familiar, still sometimes in his dreams. He gazed at the light from the window shining in her hair and the way it silhouetted the curve of her shoulders, and he drank in the well of sadness he could see in her beautiful, tired eyes. They stood just two steps apart, but they might as well have been separated by oceans.

Ben knew the correct and proper thing would be to congratulate her on her marriage. Somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to come out with it. Now that their past history had been sealed shut, formally and officially ended, the rekindled memories of their time together came flooding back more wistfully than ever. He could tell she was thinking the same.

Now it was Ben’s turn to break the long silence.

‘Why?’ he said.

She shook her head, not understanding, those two little vertical frown lines appearing above the bridge of her nose the way they did when she was irritated. ‘Why?’

‘Why?’ he repeated.

The frown deepened. ‘You mean, why did I marry Amal?’ Her tone was defensive. She didn’t wait for Ben to answer. ‘I married Amal because he’s a good and kind man and he loves me, and because he was there for me.’

And he didn’t walk out on me literally on the eve of our wedding, to go off on some crazy mission that could have got him killed. The subtext didn’t need to be spelled out. It was there in her eyes. ‘And in case you think I married him for his bloody money,’ she added, ‘I didn’t even know about the family wealth until afterwards, the first time we came to India together.’

‘It’s none of my business why you married Amal. I wasn’t asking that.’

She shook her head again. Confused. ‘Then why what?’

‘Why didn’t you call me when this happened? Don’t you know I’d have been here in a shot? That I’d throw everything down to help you in whatever way I could?’

Brooke’s frown melted. A tear rolled from one eye. She wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand.

‘You know why,’ she said. ‘Phoebe must have told you.’

‘I want to hear it from you. Why didn’t you come to me?’

‘Because it’s you, Ben,’ she said softly. The sadness in her eyes was making something hot and moist and salty rise up inside him. She added, ‘I couldn’t, after all the things between us.’

‘But you’re asking for my help now.’

She nodded and wiped another tear.

‘Yes, Ben. Because it’s you. You’re the only one. I need you to do what you do best. Better than anyone. Find my husband and punish these pieces of shit who’ve taken him. Do whatever it takes.’

He let out a long breath through his nose, looking at her and thinking of all he’d lost that day he’d walked out on her like that. ‘Well, I’m here,’ he said. ‘And I’m not leaving until we fix this. One way or another. Do you understand? I will do everything I can to make this all right.’

She stepped forward. The ocean between them was suddenly gone. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder, and he could feel the wetness of her tears through his shirt. He tenderly stroked her back. Her hair smelled sweet and fragrant, the same scent that brought back a thousand more memories. He wanted to kiss the top of her head, but stopped himself. He moved his hands to her shoulders and very gently pushed her away from him, breaking the embrace.

‘I’m so sorry for what happened,’ he said. He could just as easily have been referring to their breakup as to Amal’s kidnapping. If Brooke picked up on the ambiguity in his words, she didn’t show it.

‘It’s such a relief to have you here. I’ve been at my wits’ end. I’m going crazy in this place. You’ve no idea what it’s been like.’

Ben said, ‘Tell me everything.’

Chapter 9

Brooke invited him inside the room, which was a large living room with various others radiating off it. Amal’s personal quarters within the family residence were at least twice the size of her old flat in Richmond, as Ben remembered it. The décor was more classical and old-fashioned than the parts of the house Prem had led him through. Amal had always had good taste in things, Ben had to give him that.

‘Come, sit,’ she said, motioning to a chaise longue upholstered in satin fleur de lys. ‘You want something to drink?’

‘I thought it was Prem’s job to provide refreshments,’ Ben said.

‘I only said that to get rid of him. He’s a little too nosy for his own good, that one. Cup of tea?’

Ben pulled a face.

‘Of course. I forgot, you hate tea.’

‘How about coffee?’

‘We only have decaf. Amal gets palpitations if he drinks the real stuff.’

‘In that case, no thanks.’

‘You’re right. Tastes like boiled mouse crap, and it’s full of dichloromethane. How about a real drink? God knows I need one.’ She went over to a decorative cabinet and opened it to reveal the bottles and glasses inside. She slid out a bottle and held it up. ‘Laphroaig. Ten years old. Your favourite single malt.’

‘You remembered.’

She gave him a sad, tender smile. The little crow’s feet that appeared at the corners of her eyes were new, at least to him. Worry lines. ‘Ben, there isn’t a single detail about our time together that I would ever forget until my dying day.’

He had no idea what to say to that.

He watched as she set a pair of cut crystal tumblers side by side on the pretty cabinet, uncapped the bottle and poured a generous three fingers of scotch into each. When she’d said she needed a drink, she hadn’t been joking. She handed him his glass, fell into a soft armchair opposite him and took a long, deep gulp of her drink. It wasn’t lunchtime yet and she was attacking the whisky like a trooper. Ben cradled his in his lap, untouched so far. He’d eaten no breakfast on the plane and wanted to keep his head clear.

She studied him for a moment as she savoured her drink. ‘You look good, Ben. I hope life is treating you well.’

‘Things are fine with me,’ he lied. ‘You look good too.’ Another lie. ‘But you need to go easy with the hard stuff.’

‘Whatever,’ she replied carelessly. ‘I don’t sleep any more, I can hardly eat a bite. I’m going insane with stress and a couple of drinks is the only thing that makes me feel better.’

‘That’s my job. We’re going to find out who took Amal, and we’re going to get him back. Okay?’

She nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘Now talk to me. Backtrack. Start at the beginning. Every detail you can think of.’

Brooke took a smaller sip of scotch and leaned forward in the armchair with her elbows on her knees, getting her thoughts together. ‘Did Phoebe tell you about Kabir?’

‘Amal’s younger brother. The archaeology professor. She told me that it all started with him.’

Brooke nodded. ‘What else did she tell you?’

‘That Kabir and his two colleagues were attacked three weeks ago while on a field trip to some remote country area. They were killed. He’s missing.’

Brooke gave a sigh. ‘More or less, in a nutshell. It happened in north-west India, near a place called Rakhigarhi. It’s very remote. They flew there by helicopter.’

‘Charter aircraft?’

She shook her head. ‘Kabir’s own chopper. He’s a licensed pilot. Or was.’

‘What were they doing there?’

‘I’m not quite sure. It’s to do with some big archaeological project that he’s spent years on. Sai and Manish were two of his graduate students at the Institute. It’s not unusual for Kabir to fly out to remote locations for his work, but he always stays in touch with his office. He was supposed to have been back after two days. When he didn’t make contact or return, alarm bells started ringing and the local police were called in. The helicopter was found abandoned, raided and stripped of parts. The police discovered the bodies of Sai and Manish a few hundred yards away, but no trace of Kabir himself.’

Ben digested the details, and remembered what Brooke’s sister had told him. ‘They’d been shot?’

‘To pieces, pretty much. According to the police report. They found scores of cartridge cases lying a short distance from the scene.’

‘Implying multiple shooters. It doesn’t take that much shooting to take down two or three unarmed targets.’

She nodded. ‘Using military weapons. The cases were surplus 7.62 NATO stuff.’

‘Ex-military,’ Ben said. After many years of being issued home-grown copies of the old L1A1 British infantry rifle, the Indian Army had switched to smaller-calibre INSAS weaponry in the eighties. INSAS stood for Indian Small Arms Systems. A backward step, in Ben’s opinion, because the L1A1 with its more powerful cartridge had been one of the best combat weapons ever made. The change had caused a flood of decommissioned but still perfectly usable arms to hit the market, a vast amount of which had inevitably ended up in the hands of irregular forces like guerrilla armies, terrorist organisations and criminal gangs all across Asia and eastern Europe. Along with even vaster quantities of the now-obsolete ammunition, crates of which traded hands for a song. Hence, a lot of very trigger-happy killers on the loose. The kind of morons who’d shoot folks to pieces just for the hell of it. If Kabir had encountered a bunch like that, the chances of his survival didn’t look too promising.

Ben said, ‘Which would tend to support the police’s theory that armed bandits were responsible for the attack.’

‘That’s their take, and they’re sticking with it. The man in charge of the investigation over there is a police captain called Jabbar Dada. He calls himself “the dacoit hunter”.’

‘Dacoit?’

‘Outlaws, bandits, gangsters, whatever you want to call them. Apparently that whole region is overrun with marauding criminal gangs. Captain Dada and his police task force are on a mission to wipe them out. Sounds like he’s got his hands full. So on the face of it, the bandit theory seemed like a likely explanation.’

‘And I gather your Mr Prajapati shares that opinion, too.’

Brooke seemed surprised. ‘Phoebe told you about Prateek Prajapati?’

‘Just that he’s supposed to be the best private investigator in Delhi.’