The Messiah Secret - James Becker [95]
They knew that the overnight temperature could plummet to below zero, even in the summer months, so they bought warm clothing – woollen shirts, anoraks and padded trousers – that they’d certainly need once they left the shelter of the vehicle to begin their search. Finally, they bought a dozen water containers and filled them all to the brim, and then bought sufficient tinned and packet food to last them at least four days.
They still had a little while to wait until their permits would be ready for collection, so they headed towards the old town that lay at the base of Namgyal Hill. It was a labyrinth of narrow alleys and passageways, lined with houses.
Bronson could see piles of wood stacked outside most of the properties, and other heaps of a lumpy brown substance that was more difficult to identify.
‘I suppose that’s firewood for the winter,’ he said, pointing at the stacks of wood, ‘but what’s that other stuff?’
‘Shit,’ Angela replied.
Bronson raised his eyebrows.
‘No, it really is. It’s dried dung, mainly from camels – they use it for fuel in the winter as well.’
‘Ah,’ Bronson said, looking with renewed interest at the piles of knobbly brown stuff. ‘Doesn’t it chuck up a bit when they burn it?’
‘The guidebook doesn’t say, but I guess it’s probably best to be upwind of Leh when they light this stuff.’
They walked on, past a couple of small stone structures shaped something like miniature towers or domes.
‘Those are chortens,’ Angela said. ‘They contain holy relics of various types. And that’s a mani wall.’
She pointed at a wall directly in front of them. It was inset with a couple of stone slabs, and each of them was carved with some kind of script.
‘That’s the sacred invocation Om mani padme hum, which translates as “Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus”. You’re always supposed to walk past mani walls clockwise – and do the same with prayer wheels and chortens, in fact – which means you keep them on your right. I’ve no idea why.’
Then, as the sun slipped beneath the top of the hills lying to the west, they returned to the travel agent. Only a few weeks earlier, Bronson had been driving through the English countryside to meet Angela. Now, here he was on the roof of the world looking for a priceless treasure that had been lost for two millennia. He felt a surge of excitement at what lay ahead.
‘These your permits,’ the agent said with a smile, his English surprisingly good. ‘And these photocopies for you.’
He handed over several sheets of paper, and Angela and Bronson looked at them with interest.
‘Why so many photocopies?’ Bronson asked.
‘For checkpoints,’ the agent explained. ‘Each checkpoint look at original, and take one copy. I give you each ten copies. Should be enough. Later you want more, you come back see me, yes?’
Bronson nodded agreement.
‘They’re valid for seven days from tomorrow,’ Bronson said as they left the agency. ‘Will that be long enough?’
‘I bloody well hope so. The valley’s pretty big, but I think I know where we should start looking.’
48
‘It’s all set,’ Rodini said when Nick Masters sat down opposite him in another café in a quiet street in the centre of Islamabad – a different café this time, just in case anyone was taking an interest in either of them. Rodini had set up the meet in a five-second call to Masters’ mobile phone thirty minutes earlier. ‘Have all your men arrived now? And you’ve sourced the weapons you need?’
‘Yes – everyone’s here. The assault rifles and pistols weren’t a problem, and we even found a sniper rifle. We’re ready,’ Masters replied.
Rodini