Jani and the Greater Game (The Multiplicity Series Book 1) (24 page)

“What did she say?” he almost shouted now.

“Not over the phone, baba-ji. I will take a taxi and be with you in thirty minutes, ah-cha?”

The phone went dead and Das sat staring at the receiver, hardly able to believe his luck.

Was this the visitor Kali had mentioned, who would come to him with news of the second coin?

He hoisted himself from behind his desk and hurried into the dying light of evening. He ordered an acolyte to make Kashmiri tea, to be served in thirty minutes, and hurried back to his bungalow. There he sat on his reinforced wooden chair in the shade, working to calm his thoughts and slow his breathing.

Presently a taxi drew up outside the ashram and a squat figure stepped out. He wore brilliant white trousers and a white shirt, opened to reveal a string vest through which sprouted a profusion of body hair.

Mr Vikram trotted across the compound, murmuring apologies for his lateness and blaming the traffic north of Delhi. Das waved the words aside, told Mr Vikram to sit down, and snapped at a serving boy to pour.

When they were quite alone, Das eyed Mr Vikram. The man had a self-satisfied expression on his pudding face as he held a tiny china cup in a ham of a hand, his little finger extended ridiculously. Das decided that he didn’t like the man.

“Now what of the Chatterjee girl and the Morn?” he said impatiently.

“The little matter of expenses...” Vikram began.

“I will expedite the payment of any monies owed when, and only when, you tell me what you know.”

Vikram frowned. “I have considerably more information than that concerning the Morn, babi-ji. Information concerning the Morn will be covered by payment of my expenses. Further information, that concerning the whereabouts of the Chatterjee girl, will require a supernumerary consideration. You must understand that my wife is expecting our sixth child imminently, and with an extra mouth to feed...”

Das contained his anger and said, “The whereabouts of the girl? Explain yourself!”

“Shortly after her father died, and she left the hospital, Janisha Chatterjee was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?”

“I followed her from the hospital. It was my intention to pay my condolences, and to question her further regarding what she had told her father. I assumed she would go straight home, which would make my job of apprehending her that much easier. However, she alighted in Old Delhi and I followed her to Roopa’s Tea Rooms. A little later I saw her being carried unconscious by a Russian I have had contact with in the past.”

“And where did the Russian take her?” Das asked, leaning forward over his stomach.

“To a warehouse in the Karnaka district, baba-ji. There I waited. It was my plan to enter the building and try to find out what they wanted with the girl. But the building was securely locked and I was forced to alter my plans. While I was outside, and wondering what to do next, the girl was saved.”

Das stared at his informant. “Saved. This is becoming a more fantastical story by the second! What do you mean, saved?”

“A great mechanical man knocked down the wall of the warehouse and rescued the girl, babi-ji. I followed the giant to the station, where it was loaded onto a train. The girl was still within the giant, sir. Presently the train departed, bound for Dehrakesh.”

Das sipped his tea and considered what Vikram had told him.

“And I wonder why,” he said, more to himself, “first the Russian, and then whoever was piloting the mechanical man, were so interested in the Chatterjee girl?” He stared at Vikram. “You said that she spoke to her father about the Morn?”

Vikram smiled. “The following information, baba-ji, will come at a fee over and above that of my expenses.”

Das began to argue, then stopped himself and said instead, “How much?”

“Five hundred rupees, baba-ji.”

Das controlled his breathing. What was five hundred rupees, after all, when it might pave the way for the coming of the gods?

He inclined his head. “Tell me everything you know and I will expedite the payment.”

“No, sir. I must insist. Payment now, and
then
I will furnish you with the information.”

Das regarded the man. He withdrew a roll of notes from his robes and counted out two hundred rupees. “I will give you this only. The rest, when I have the information...”

Vikram grabbed the notes, hardly able to contain his greedy smile as he went on, “Janisha Chatterjee told her father about the attack on the
Rudyard Kipling
, which she was aboard. In the aftermath she happened upon a creature which her father called a Morn. When I heard this,” Vikram, said, smiling, “I knew you would be interested. According to the girl, the creature gave her something.”

“Something?”

“Something she described as a coin, baba-ji. A disc.”

It was all Das could do not to shout out loud. He controlled himself for fear of fanning the fires of Vikram’s greed. “A coin?” he said with all the casualness he could muster.

Vikram nodded. “A coin. That was all she said. But I guessed,” he went on, eyes twinkling, “that it must be important.”

The second tithra-kun̄jī.

It was clear to Durga Das that there was only one course of action he might now pursue. It was imperative that he track down the Chatterjee girl.

“And you are sure that she was aboard the train bound for Dehrakesh?” he asked.

“With my own eyes I saw the giant take her, and she did not leave the mechanical man before it reached the station.”

He would hire an airship within the hour, Das decided, and make straight for Dehrakesh. He struggled to his feet and hurried across to the ashram.

“And the remaining three hundred rupees?” Vikram asked, scurrying alongside him.

Das stopped, turned and stared at the man, a suspicion dawning. If he were correct, then he might work this to his advantage. “But what,” he asked, “did the Russian agent want with the Chatterjee girl?”

Vikram joggled his head from side to side, his smile inane – and incriminatory. “That I cannot say, baba-ji.”

Das shook his head. “You liar... You have had dealings with the Russians – you just admitted as much. Admit it, you phoned them just as soon as Kapil Dev Chatterjee died! You sold them the information, just as you’re selling it to me!”

“But Baba-ji, the Russians are on our side! They are honourable men, fighting a common enemy!”

“You’re a fool, Vikram – and what is worse, a greedy fool.”

“But our agreement. I told you what you wanted to know! You owe me...”

Enraged, Das waved. “Chalo! Go to your Russian paymasters for your filthy rupees!”

“But sir...!”

Das took a step forward and bore down on the cowering man. “Already you have two hundred rupees. Be satisfied with that, you greedy cur.”

“But...” Vikram began.

“If you do not leave now, Mr Vikram, then I shall be forced to have Mr Knives attend to you.”

Vikram quailed. “Mr Knives?” he said, his voice trembling.

“Exactly, Mr Vikram, and you know what Mr Knives will do upon my instructions?”

Smiling, Das watched as Vikram turned tail and ran.

Das entered the ashram, and ordered one servant to call a taxi and another to arrange airship passage to Dehrakesh. He would make the journey and, with luck, arrive before nightfall – but he could not set out on the mission alone. He needed a trusted, capable companion, and there was only one such man suitable for the job.

He found Mr Knives – as he affectionately called the young fellow – lounging against a pillar on the verandah and cleaning his nails with a rather large dagger. He wore a sharp grey suit and possessed a face as thin as his favourite blades.

Last year Das had rescued Mr Knives from a street-gang, and a life of crime and certain imprisonment, and employed him as a bodyguard. The young thug came in useful when muscle needed to be applied in certain areas. Later Mr Knives had admitted to Das, when drunk one evening on cheap Bombay rum, that he had once killed a man with his beloved blade; it had been a rash boast to make, all things considered, for now the holy man had the reprobate just where he wanted him.

He snapped his fingers and said, “How would you like an airship ride to Dehrakesh, Mr Knives? Follow me!”

With luck, Mr Knives’ expertise might not be required, but it was always wise to be prepared.

Thirty minutes later Durga Das and Mr Knives left the ashram aboard a taxi, and an hour after that were in the air high above Delhi, bound for Dehrakesh.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

An accidental meeting –

Jani takes tea with the Reverend Carstairs –

A lucky escape – “You’re speaking in riddles...”

I
T WAS TEN
o’clock in the morning when Jani slipped from the warehouse and hurried along the busy street. She felt as if everyone who glanced her way knew of her secret, and she wondered how long it might be before the authorities traced her from Delhi.

As she left the warehouse behind her, heading for the main boulevard where the bazaars and stores were to be found, she saw a police jeep – carrying one British officer, with three Indian minions – edging its way through the press of humanity. The moustachioed officer looked impatient as he rapped on the frame of the windscreen with his swagger stick and shouted at the crowd to make way.

The Indian constables eyed the crowd with suspicion, and Jani hurried past, heart thumping.

She expected a harsh cry to arrest her progress – and only breathed a little easier when she turned a corner and hurried across the road towards the mock-Tudor frontage of a Hobson and Jobson department store.

As she was about to climb the three steps to the store’s fan-cooled interior, a shadow crossed the face of the sun and she looked up. She squinted at a great airship passing sedately high above, a police vessel bearing the red, white and blue livery of the union flag on its cigar-shaped envelope.

She could not help but jump to the conclusion that reinforcements had been sent to Dehrakesh. The authorities in Delhi had discovered the remains of the shattered warehouse where she had been held, and traced the progress of the Mech-Man back to Mr Clockwork’s premises. Then they had deduced that Max had been driven by one Anand Doshi, the houseboy of the late Minister of Security whose daughter they desperately sought... From this it was but a short leap of logic to assume that they had questioned Mr Clockwork and found that Anand had delivered Max the Mech-Man to the warehouse in Dehrakesh.

She felt dizzy with panic as she hurried up the steps to the department store.

So flustered was she that she collided with someone who was coming down the steps. She rebounded with a start and looked up to see her surprised expression mirrored on the round, moonlike countenance of an overweight young man in a beige suit, straw hat, and a clerical collar.

“I’m so sorry!” she began.

The young parson reached out, clutched her hand in a bid to steady her, and said, “My fault entirety, Miss. I was miles away.” He raised his hat and smiled pleasantly. “Good day to you...”