The Messiah Secret - James Becker [97]
‘Ballpark?’ Masters asked.
Rodini checked his notes again, then gave Masters the figure he’d had in mind from the first. ‘One hundred thousand American,’ he said. ‘That includes the vehicles – you can keep them or dump them, as you wish – and the chopper on standby and at Alert Thirty with effect from nine tomorrow morning.’
‘That’s totally bloody extortionate, and you know it,’ Masters snapped. ‘I figured fifty grand, tops. It’s two jeeps, a couple of flights in a chopper, two sat-phones and a bit of forgery. How the hell did you come up with that figure?’
‘You know how. Because I can supply everything that you need and because I won’t ask you questions that you don’t want to answer. You’re very welcome to try to find somebody else if you think that’s too expensive. And it’s half now, as in right now.’
‘Meaning what, precisely?’
‘Meaning a transfer to my Swiss bank today, or the price goes up ten thousand. I’ll want the second half on completion of the operation.’
Masters knew Rodini had him over a barrel. He didn’t know any other high-ranking military officers in that part of Pakistan, and if he tried to use one of his other possible contacts Rodini might well hear about it and block him. And a junior officer couldn’t just snap his fingers and a helicopter would appear – yet Rodini could, and frequently did. And, Masters reflected, it wasn’t as if it was his money anyway.
‘OK, you blood-sucking bastard, it’s a deal,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell my principal to wire you the money. I can guarantee the instruction will be given within the hour, but I can’t be certain when the funds will arrive in Switzerland. That’s completely out of our hands.’
‘Your credit’s good with me,’ Rodini said. ‘As soon as the first fifty thousand gets to my account I’ll keep my side of the deal. But if it doesn’t arrive, you and your men will have a really long wait for the helicopter.’
49
A Dhruv – the utility helicopter built in India by the HAL company – came to a hover and then settled on to a concrete hardstanding at a small Indian Army base just outside Karu, on the east bank of the Indus and about thirty miles south of Leh.
The howl of the jet engines diminished as the pilot closed the throttles and lowered the collective, the parallel steel skids spreading slightly apart as the weight of the aircraft settled on to them. Safely on the ground, the pilot initiated the shut-down procedure, the engine noise dying away even further. The four-bladed main rotor slowed visibly, and eventually came to a stop, the blades dipping and weaving slightly in the wind blowing across the army base. Only then did the doors of the Dhruv open.
Two men emerged, one climbing out with the ease that came from long familiarity with the aircraft, the other man – a shorter and stockier figure in a set of faded green flying overalls – clearly having some difficulty. The pilot walked round the nose of the helicopter to assist him, then both men walked away towards an adjacent single-storey building, the shorter man carrying a bulky leather carry-on bag.
Just under an hour later, Father Michael Killian sat in a hard wooden chair in the briefing room and wondered yet again why the place wasn’t air conditioned. It wasn’t the clinging, muggy heat that had assaulted him when he’d stepped out of the aircraft at Delhi, but it was still hot enough inside the room to be uncomfortable, even in the relative cool of the early evening.
He had drunk two bottles of ice-cold water and pecked impatiently at a tray of snacks he’d found on the self-service bar on one side of the room while he waited to speak to the officer in charge.
The door finally opened and a smartly dressed Indian Army officer stepped inside. Killian was unfamiliar with American military ranks, and knew virtually nothing about the insignia of foreign armed forces, but simply from the man’s bearing it was clear he was a senior officer.
‘You’re Father Killian?’ the man asked, his English fluent.
Killian nodded.
‘Colonel Mani Tembla,’ the officer said, extending his hand.