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  A few minutes became fifteen. He was becoming restless, what were they doing? To hell with it, he thought. He got up and advanced towards the lift and then saw it was on its way down. He figured that it must be them and if not, he would go straight up and find out what was going on.

  The door opened and the lift was empty. Odd. He got in and pressed the button. Just as the doors began to close, he heard the receptionist say something. Was it addressed to him? He managed to insert his foot into the gap between the doors and trip them open. He leaned out and looked to his right, towards the desk some 30 feet away. There was a woman standing there, suitcase nearby, clearly checking out. He realised that he was wrong and that whatever the receptionist had said was directed at her. He was just about to retreat into the lift when he saw the receptionist look his way. Nick could see the barely concealed panic on the man’s face. He took another look at the woman, whose attention was suddenly drawn to him when she turned her head to see what the receptionist was looking at.

  It was Sylvie. How the hell had she got down here? He began to walk towards her and it took a few steps before she remembered who he was. He saw the shock on her face and then she reached into her bag and pulled out a gun.

  ‘Stop there.’

  He stopped. ‘Where’s Rebecca Slade?’

  ‘I have no idea who that is.’ She glanced across at the receptionist. ‘Take my suitcase.’

  The man hesitated, until she turned the gun on him. He stepped out from behind the desk and picked it up.

  ‘Stay where you are DCI Severance, or this man dies.’

  Sylvie positioned herself so the receptionist was between her and Nick. She ordered the man towards the door. There was no one else in the lobby to distract her. Nick stayed rooted to the spot until they disappeared through the entrance door and then he sprinted after her. He burst through the door to find the receptionist staring forlornly at the back of a Mercedes, accelerating off the forecourt. Nick had just enough time to register the licence plate.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked the clearly shaken man.

  ‘Yes sir, yes,’ the receptionist replied, his hand to his chest.

  ‘Do you have a pen and paper?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Pen and paper. I want to write the licence plate number.’

  ‘Inside.’

  They went back inside. Before they reached the desk, Nick realised there was no need to write anything down. He’d seen the number before. In Rebecca’s notebook.

  He swore. Where were the bloody policemen? Had they taken a wrong turning?

  ‘She came down the stairs, sir,’ said the receptionist, once he was safely stationed behind the desk.

  ‘So I gather.’ He ran back to the lift, which hadn’t moved and took it to the third floor. Then he found room 306. The door was shut and there was no sign of Kolkata’s finest. He had to go back and get another pass key before he could get in.

  The door opened into a spacious living area, with separate doors on the left for bedroom and bathroom. The two officers lay dead on the living room floor. They hadn’t even drawn their weapons. One had been shot in the head, he could see that much, and the other had blood oozing from his chest.

  Nick hadn’t heard a thing and if there were other residents nearby, it would appear that they hadn’t either. Sylvie had calmly killed two Kolkata police officers and then packed her bags and decided to check out, as if nothing had happened. The woman was ice cool. The only crumb of comfort he could take from this whole bloody mess was in the knowledge that by killing two policemen she had just ensured that every cop in India would be looking out for her. He left the room and walked back to the lift. It was time to call Shah and give him the news. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

  Chapter 10

  Rebecca sat at the table and contemplated her ‘product description’ on the laptop screen for the thousandth time. There was nothing else stored on the machine and no internet connection, either. She was effectively in solitary confinement, with nothing but her own thoughts for company. The tedium was only interrupted by someone arriving to bring her food and water. She had become somewhat fatalistic about what she thought might happen, now the task she’d been brought here for was done. Abdul had disappeared and the man who had replaced him as her keeper was younger and grimmer and watched her like a hawk. When he came he announced himself by telling her to get back from the door, otherwise he said nothing. He had a gun holstered at his hip too, which Rebecca thought he might well be able to use before she had any chance of disabling him with the hotplate.

  Once she had finished her treatise on the lions and their provenance, Sylvie had read it and then saved it on to a memory stick. After telling Rebecca not to do anything stupid, she left. That was yesterday. Rebecca had tried to sleep that night, but it had proved difficult to do more than doze. She was too wound-up with fear and worry about how and when they would get rid of her. Sometime in the night she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, which parked close by the hut. Then nothing. Now she thought it must be around 7am and wondered if anyone would bring breakfast. She had a half-full bottle of water which she assumed had come from the lake, the taps on the sink weren’t connected to anything liquid. She wasn’t that hungry, anyway. The fear had made a tight knot of her stomach and killed her appetite.

  The door suddenly opened and Sylvie and Abdul entered. Abdul looked rather tired and unkempt, but Sylvie, by contrast, was disconcertingly cool and fresh at this early hour. She walked across and slapped a newspaper down on the table.

  ‘Today’s first edition of the Times of India,’ she said.

  Rebecca gave her a curious look.

  ‘Look at the front page,’ commanded Sylvie.

  Rebecca unfolded the paper. The headline jumped out at her: ‘Priceless Golden Lions of Ashoka Stolen From Tomb’. Directly underneath that, there were two photos of the lions in question. Looking for all the world just like the ones she’d taken the day she visited Chipra. The article described the missing lions as a ‘national treasure’ and the Ministry of Culture was offering 5,000,000 rupees as a reward for their successful recovery.

  ‘My god,’ she whispered.

  ‘Did you take those photos?’ asked Sylvie, her look one of distinct displeasure.

  There was little point in denying it. ‘Yes, looks like it.’

  Sylvie moved so quickly that she didn’t see it coming. The force of the sharp slap tipped her off the chair and then she found herself sitting on the floor with her hand to her face and tears streaming down her cheeks.

  It was the first time she’d seen her captor lose her cool. Sylvie’s expression stayed calm, but the look in her eyes held a malevolence that chilled Rebecca to the bone. She looked away.

  ‘Who did you share them with?’ demanded Sylvie.

  When no answer was forthcoming, Sylvie knelt next to Rebecca and placed a hand on the back of her neck. She moved it slightly, till she found the pressure point she was looking for, then squeezed. Rebecca screamed.

  ‘Answer me,’ said Sylvie, her tone insistent.

  ‘I sent them to a Detective in London,’ rasped Rebecca, through the haze of pain invading her skull.

  Sylvie released her. Rebecca gave an anguished sob and raised a hand to massage her aching neck.

  ‘Get up.’

  Rebecca did as instructed. Sylvie motioned her towards the chair she’d so recently vacated and then took a seat herself.

  ‘We met last night,’ she said, her anger now tinged with amusement.

  ‘You met who?’

  ‘DCI Severance. Isn’t that who you sent the photos to?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was here in India?

  ‘He was in Kolkata, at my hotel. I was only there to send a few emails and then leave. I don’t suppose you told him where to look for me?’

  Rebecca shook her head, her mind racing to process this latest development through the fog in her brain. ‘How would I know that?’

  Sylvie regar
ded her solemnly for a moment. ‘He asked after you.’ She sighed. ‘Given the changing circumstances, we have decided to leave today.’

  So this is it, Rebecca thought. Now they take me outside and shoot me.

  ‘And you’re coming with us,’ Sylvie continued. ‘You’ve just become our insurance policy.’

  Abdul made dhaal served with stale naan bread, for breakfast. Rebecca forced herself to eat, even though her throat felt so constricted she found it hard to swallow. In the event that some opportunity presented itself to get away from these people, she wanted as much energy to call on as possible. After the meal was done she was marched outside, sat on a chair and then handcuffed to a rear door handle of the Mercedes. She watched as the container with the lions was secured and shortly afterwards the articulated lorry started up and made a slow u-turn, towards the exit road.

  There was a flurry of activity as two men she hadn’t seen before emerged from the other two huts bearing packs, suitcases and bedding, which they slung in the back of the pick-up trucks. The man who’d given the orders on her first night here appeared with a suitcase, looking urbane as ever, if somewhat frazzled. He put his case in the Mercedes’ boot and passed her by without a word. He went to the men loading the trucks and there was some animated conversation, before they were joined by the man who had been keeping an eye on her in Abdul’s absence. He got into one of the vehicles and drove off, followed shortly by the remaining two men in the second pick-up.

  Abdul and Sylvie were the last to appear. Abdul unlocked her and indicated she should sit in the rear. When she was in he cuffed one hand to the interior door handle. Sylvie sat next to her, in the same arrangement they’d observed for bringing her here. This time, however, they had a front seat passenger. He settled himself in, waiting for Abdul.

  ‘You saw the Times, then,’ he said, staring out the windscreen at Abdul, who was checking the doors of the three huts, making sure they were all locked.

  As Sylvie said nothing, Rebecca could only assume this remark was aimed at her. ‘Yes, I did.’

  Abdul seemed satisfied with the state of the place, and joined them. He started the car and they moved off.

  ‘It seems your City of London policeman knows more than we gave him credit for. Your photographs haven’t helped the situation, of course.’ He turned to face her. ‘But you may be useful as a bargaining chip, should that become necessary.’

  He seemed quite unruffled, almost courteous. She wondered if his polished veneer would crack under pressure, and if so, what he might be capable of.

  ‘Who are you people?’

  He gave her a thoughtful look. ‘That depends on who’s asking, really.’ Then he smiled. ‘My name is David Le Roux.’

  He caught Sylvie’s admonishing eye. ‘They know who they’re looking for now. At least I assume DCI Severance does. No point in using other names, Sylvie, at least not in this car. We have a long way to go.’

  Sylvie shrugged. ‘As you wish. You can stop calling me Rashida.’

  Not that I ever did call you anything at all, thought Rebecca. Bitch would be a good start.

  Half an hour later, they stopped at the village Rebecca remembered passing through the other night. Calling it a village was an exaggeration, it was more like a handful of ramshackle houses with thatched roofs, some of them holed. No one seemed to be around. Abdul got out and walked across to one of the houses. The door was opened and Rebecca could hear the murmur of conversation, though she couldn’t make out who Abdul was talking to. When he came back he was carrying something. He walked to the front of the Mercedes and held his bundle up for inspection. It was a set of number plates. Le Roux gave him the thumbs-up and then Abdul busied himself with fitting the new plates. Once that was done, they resumed their journey.

  ‘Let me explain our itinerary,’ offered Le Roux. ‘We’re going to Chennai. That’s about twelve hours away. We will stop every four hours and those who need a toilet break, can take one. When you need one, Ms Slade, you will be accompanied.’

  Rebecca nodded.

  ‘Don’t think of doing anything to attract attention to yourself if we stop in a public place. If you do, our association will end badly.’

  He didn’t need to spell it out. She could see Sylvie looking at her from the corner of her eye. No need to ask who would be responsible for ending the association, she thought. ‘I understand.’

  Le Roux turned away. For the next few hours he lost himself in the newspaper and Sylvie had a book to occupy her. Rebecca decided to catch up on lost sleep, or at least try. She closed her eyes, but sleep proved elusive. She ended up staring out the window and wondering how she might extricate herself from this mess. Inspiration was just as elusive as sleep.

  They stopped at a petrol station, where Sylvie unlocked her and then walked her arm in arm to the toilet area. When Rebecca had finished, Sylvie decided they should stretch their legs. They took an intimate stroll around the service area, looking to any casual observer like two old friends catching up on gossip. Then they were back in the car and back on the highway.

  Sylvie returned to her book, but after a few minutes closed it and placed it on the seat between them. Rebecca glanced towards it.

  ‘Do you read Arabic?’ asked Sylvie.

  ‘No.’ So much for that idea. She thought she might go stir-crazy if she had to spend several more hours handcuffed to a door handle, doing nothing. Almost before she knew it, she’d spoken.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  Sylvie’s eyes seemed to darken. For a moment Rebecca thought she was about to be slapped again, but the other woman made no move towards her. It was Le Roux who answered.

  ‘You think we’re common thieves, don’t you, Rebecca.’ He was facing forwards, but his voice was clear enough. ‘If you don’t mind I’ll call you Rebecca from now on. Ms Slade seems a little too formal, given the circumstances.’

  ‘Sure,’ muttered Rebecca, more interested in what he might say than in the details of social etiquette.

  ‘Those beautiful lions that you would no doubt like to see in a museum, are needed to finance a few projects we’re working on. In fact, the money we raise from their sale will be the catalyst in making those projects a reality.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Tell her your story, Sylvie.’

  For a split second Sylvie’s mask of cool, cultured elegance dropped. Rebecca caught a glimpse of a sadder and more vulnerable spirit, then it was gone.

  ‘If you like,’ she said. For a while she appeared to be lost in her own thoughts and then she looked up at Rebecca. ‘It starts in Iraq, in 2003.’

  Sylvie Dajani went to Baghdad, for her cousin’s wedding. She knew the situation in Iraq was turbulent, the president of the United States had given Saddam an ultimatum: - get out or we come in. Saddam had ignored it. Sylvie was on a French passport, she thought if the situation deteriorated she would have no trouble leaving the city. And as far as she and her Iraqi relations were concerned, the continuity of day to day life wasn’t about to be compromised by the threat of imminent invasion.

  At that time she was a student of philosophy at the Sorbonne, in Paris. She met David Le Roux when she sat next to him on the flight to Baghdad and they chatted. As it turned out, their families were distantly related by marriage. He was on business and knew nothing about the upcoming wedding, so she insisted he attend if he could possibly make it. He agreed and they exchanged contact details.

  There had been some bombing of the city two days prior to the wedding, then it went quiet. On the day itself, the ceremony was performed without incident. The celebrations had just got underway when at 5pm, the shelling began. It could be said with the benefit of hindsight that the shell that killed Farrah, the bride, and 50 other guests, was simply unfortunate. After all, the invaders were ostensibly after strategic targets, not civilians. What started as a day of joyous celebration had become a horror show. The groom, Ahmed, survived the attack. David and Sylvie were unscathed in body
, but numb with shock.

  She stayed to organise Farrah’s funeral and give whatever assistance she could to the family. She was still in Baghdad almost a month later, when US forces entered the city. Soon afterwards Ahmed was detained, for reasons that were never made clear. They took him to Abu Ghraib prison. He was never seen again and reports soon emerged about the indignities inmates suffered in that place. On the day they came for him, Sylvie was at the house. Two soldiers took her into a bedroom, tied her to the bed and then raped her.

  David, who had been trying to arrange the welfare of his own relatives, learned of the incident. He called in to offer what help he could and over the next week he often spoke to her about the illegality of the war and what it would do to the country once Saddam was toppled. Civil war and Iraqi suffering, all motivated by Western greed. She had been violated and so had the Iraqi people.

  The experience of her rape and the suffering she saw around her made her vulnerable to suggestions she would never have dreamed of entertaining a few months earlier. David’s assessment of the situation seemed eminently reasonable. Her trauma became outrage.

  When David told her he could introduce her to a group of insurgents, she agreed to meet them. The commander was a man of David’s age, who had been an army Major. He had avoided capture by the advancing forces and was now organising a splinter group to carry out guerrilla attacks on US personnel. He was a forward thinker and wanted to broaden his remit to eventually strike at the US and UK on home soil. He seemed to know David quite well.

  The suggestion was that Sylvie would be more valuable to them if she returned to France. A fifth columnist, ready to act when the time was ripe. But before that, she would need some training. They would send her to a camp in Pakistan, where all the necessary skills for aspiring freedom-fighters were taught. She spent six months somewhere near the border with Afghanistan, learning operational planning, unarmed combat, bomb-making, and the use of weapons. On her return to Paris she had been transformed into an instrument of jihad.