The Messiah Secret

He made sure Angela was clutching her handbag and laptop bag, then grabbed the handles on their two suitcases and stepped closer to the edge of the pavement, scanning the road in both directions. Pedestrians thronged the pavements and the edge of the road itself, many of them flapping handkerchiefs ineffectually in front of their faces or fanning themselves with their hats. Some even sported umbrellas against the sunlight.

‘It’s not just us,’ Angela murmured. ‘Even the locals are feeling the heat.’

‘We mustn’t get in any cab unless it’s air conditioned,’ Bronson instructed. ‘I’m not sweltering in a tin box in this heat.’

‘How will I tell?’

‘Simple. If all the windows are closed, it’s got air-con. If they’re open, it hasn’t.’

A couple of minutes later, they saw an elderly Mercedes draw up beside them, all the windows wide open.

‘Ignore it,’ Bronson said, looking down the street, watching out for another cab.

The next cab also had its windows open, but then he saw a fairly new taxi going the other way, all its windows closed. He whistled and waved, and was rewarded by the brake lights flaring red as the driver hauled the vehicle round in a tight – and probably illegal – U-turn.

‘Here’s our ride,’ Bronson said. He seized the handles of their suitcases and walked forwards as the car drew to a stop. The driver stepped out, opened the boot and helped Bronson lift their suitcases inside. Angela climbed into the back seat and Bronson sat beside the driver, revelling in the blast of cold air coming out of the dashboard vents.

‘Where to, sir?’ the driver asked, pulling out into the traffic, his English accented but clearly understandable.

‘The airport,’ Bronson said. ‘We need to fly up to Delhi.’

‘Very good. Domestic terminal. I very well know which way. You enjoy ride.’

The drive wasn’t perhaps the most enjoyable experience of their lives. Rush hour in Mumbai made the chaos of Cairo seem almost tame by comparison. Several times Bronson was absolutely certain a collision was imminent, and he’d close his eyes, only to hear a squeal of brakes and simultaneous bellowing of horns, and realize they’d somehow managed to scrape through without hitting anything. But the air conditioning in the taxi worked well and, despite the terrifying driving all around them, they were both almost sorry when their journey ended and they had to face the heat and humidity once again.

Bronson paid the driver, retrieved their bags from the boot and together they walked into the terminal building in front of them.

The flight to Delhi left on time, which slightly surprised them both, and they then had a two-hour wait in the domestic terminal in the capital before their onward flight to Leh.

When their flight was finally called, they picked up their bags again and walked towards the departure gate, and the last leg of their journey.

As they stood up, two middle-aged men of European appearance who’d been sitting about twenty feet away stood up as well. One of them looked down again at the picture displayed on the screen of his mobile phone, comparing that tiny image – showing a man lying apparently unconscious on the flag-stoned floor of a room – with the face of the man in front of him. Then he nodded to his companion. The identification was certain.

As Bronson and Angela walked away, the two men followed about fifty feet behind them, joining the back of the queue for the flight out to Leh, a flight for which they’d already bought tickets. As they waited to pass through the departure gate, the man holding the Nokia flipped it open and then made a twenty-second call to a US mobile number.

46

Nick Masters, his eyes red with exhaustion after a series of long-haul flights, took another sip of thick black coffee and stared across the table at the tall, slim man wearing an immaculate light grey suit. Despite his Western-style dress, his companion’s brown skin, black hair and dark eyes marked him as a local. In fact, Rodini was a lieutenant-colonel in the Pakistani military.

They were meeting in a small café close to the centre of Islamabad. Masters had explained what assistance he needed, though not why he needed it. And Rodini knew better than to ask for specifics.

‘Tell me exactly which part of Kashmir you need to get to,’ Rodini asked, sliding cutlery and plates to one side and opening a military map on the table.

‘Northern Ladakh,’ Masters said, pointing at the area near Pänämik.