Dishonored (27 page)

“Anything else?”

Imran took his cue: he always knew when to stop. “It’s all in the files,” he finished. “I’ll let you go over the details in
private.”

Mitchell nodded. He opened the first brown folder and glanced down. A few moments later he looked up again.

“Well done,” he said.

Imran nodded. He waited for Mitchell to make another comment but when he didn’t, Imran asked impatiently, “What do you want
me to do next?” But the moment he said it he knew he’d made an error.

Mitchell stopped reading but didn’t look up. “I will tell you when I am ready,” he snapped. “Don’t push me.”

Imran looked away. You never knew with Harvey which way he’d swing. He was an evil bastard; you had to watch every step. Several
minutes later, Mitchell closed the file.

“Have you made any arrangements for lunch?” he asked. Imran shook his head. “Good. We’ll go to my club then.”

He stood, unlocked a drawer in his desk and slipped the files inside. He didn’t want anything done for now; he needed to think
it through carefully. She had to go but he didn’t want any whiff of scandal. Locking the drawer, he walked around the desk
and stood in front of the young man. He touched the thick, jet-black hair. “I’ve missed you,” he said. Imran flinched; this
was a part of the job he didn’t like.

“Come on.” Mitchell moved toward the door and glanced back as Imran stood. Success always gave him a hell of an appetite.
“I booked a table for two at midday,” he said. “We don’t want to waste the afternoon eating, do we?”

It was late, past midnight, and Shiva Rai sat at his desk in the slumbering silence of his house waiting for his call. The
end was near and he was finally ready. He had waited patiently for this, he had lived for it, a wish passed on his father’s
deathbed, a debt of honor that should have been paid many years ago. Events, circumstances, too many things had conspired
against him, thwarted him, made him wait. But now, now he had won. He had manipulated the maharajah, persuaded him of his
need to be advised, given him the idea. And then, after a long search he had found Major Mills in the English royal house
and he knew his luck had finally turned, he knew he was going to get what he wanted. He had advised the maharajah and Mills
had been brought back to India, brought back to answer finally for his family’s crimes.

But Shiva was tired, he had been planning for too long, his whole life, it seemed, and now, now that it was almost finished,
he was suddenly weary of it all. He wanted for it just to be over.

The phone rang. He was ready; the time had come. Picking up the receiver, he spoke quickly and quietly. He wrote down an address
along with a sum of money on the note pad in front of him and smiling briefly, he hung up. He made one last call, read out
what he had written down, confirmed the instructions, the timings of Phillip’s visit and saying nothing else, replaced the
receiver. His spies had served him well. He was finished; it was done.

Standing, he crossed to the window and looked out at the sky, that great expanse of black that saw all the sins of the world.
What did his little one matter? It was a small immorality in the sea of human evil. It was deserved and it was just.

Hearing an owl cry, Shiva Rai shuddered. A superstitious old man, it was a bad omen and it unnerved his sense of calm, of
righteousness. He backed away from the window, not wanting to hear it again and hurried across the room to the door. He turned
off the lamps from the main switch and took the key to his study from a silk cord that hung from his cummerbund. Then he closed
the door behind him as he stepped out into the passage and locked it. The next time he entered that room it would be over.
A hundred years of dishonor would be wiped from the name of Rai.

T
HE WEATHER HAD COOLED
. I
T WAS AUTUMN AND THE HARSH
heat of high summer had softened to an easy warmth, bright sunny mornings with fresh easterly winds and temperate afternoons
that faded slowly into cool evenings.

Rami sat on the steps of the Rai bungalow in the mellow midday sun and watched the mechanic at work on Shiva’s Land Rover.
He was expected at Viki’s hunting lodge up in Meejat for lunch with his grandfather and the maharajah and he was already late;
he should have been on his way two hours ago.

He kept his eyes on the legs that stuck out from under the jeep and waited, impatiently tapping his fingers on the stone step
where he sat. His grandfather rarely asked him for lunch; it had to be something important and he was worried that he would
offend. Shiva was up in the hills hunting with Viki and a party of politicians. Rami had been honored to be invited.

“Any luck?” he called, standing and heading down to the mechanic. The man slid out from under the Land Rover.

“I’m sorry, Ramesh Sahib, but I think you have a problem with the oil.”

Rami sighed irritably. “Can you fix it?”

“Oh most certainly, but not right away, sahib.” The man sat up and wiped his hands on a rag. “I can do it maybe in an hour.”

Rami nodded. There was no other way up to the lodge; a taxi would never make it. “OK,” he said, turning back to the steps.
“Do the best you can.” And he sat down again and tried to take his mind off the waiting.

Phillip locked his office door and walked across the terrace and along the passage to the front of the palace. He exchanged
greetings with the two uniformed guards on duty and walked through the doors that were held open for him. A taxi was waiting
at the entrance.

He gave the address he wanted and climbed into the car. It wasn’t the right address but it was close and he’d go the rest
of the way on foot. He was looking forward to this afternoon; with the maharajah away, he was taking a well-earned rest. Glancing
behind him as the car pulled out on to the main road and watching the distance for a few minutes, he satisfied himself that
no one had seen him and, winding the window down, he sat back with a cool breeze on his face and relaxed.

Suzanna was waiting for him in the hallway of her rented bungalow at exactly one o’clock; she knew he would be on time. He
knocked at the door twice and she opened it, standing to the side out of view, letting him inside the house. They stood facing
each other for a few moments, both aware of the luxury of spending the afternoon together in private and then Phillip lifted
her up and carried her through to the bedroom.

“God, I want you,” he said as he placed her on her feet in the darkened room. He glanced across at the window just to check
the blinds were fully drawn, then he kissed her, pulling her dress up and pressing her urgently back toward the bed. Suzy
waited a few moments then she tore her mouth away.

“No,” she said quietly. “Wait.” She walked away from him and along the passage. A minute or so later, she came back with her
hands full of long silk scarves and saw the briefest flicker of a smile pass across his lips. She dropped them on the bed
and turned. “Take your clothes off,” she instructed. “All of them.”

Phillip swallowed. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulling his tie down and letting them both drop to the floor. Bending, he pulled
off his socks, undid his fly and tugged his trousers down over his hips. He was fully erect.

Suzanna placed her fingers on him and stroked, twice, her hand moving the whole length of him. “Lie down,” she commanded.
He shivered with anticipation and did as she asked.

Taking the scarves, she lifted his arms above his head and tied his wrists with the first one, not tight, but tight enough,
then she parted his thighs, tying each of his ankles to the post at the corner of the bed. She watched his face and lifted
her dress above her head, standing in just her stilettoes and a gold chain around her slim, curved waist. She moved forward
and bent her head, darting her tongue over the tip of him, her heavy breasts falling forward and touching his thighs. He groaned
and struggled to move his arms.

“You can’t touch, remember?” she said, lifting her head away. She climbed up on to the bed and knelt over him, raising her
body up, the sharp heel of her shoes digging into his flesh. She cupped her breasts and fingered the nipples, wetting the
end of one finger so that the pink tip glistened with saliva. Then she moved forward so that her hips were above his face
and smiled. “Only with your tongue,” she murmured, “and your cock.” And parting her thighs further, she lowered herself down,
moaned at the exquisite pleasure and closed her eyes, just as the shadow of a figure passed across the wall in front of her.

Jane sat up in bed with a sheet over her and drank the camomile tea that the ayah had brought her. She had been writing in
her diary. It was a while since she had done so; she had been too unwell but she felt better today, less tired and less sick
and she reckoned that she might at last be coming to the end of her illness. She finished her tea, optimistic at the prospect
of her afternoon with Rami, and stood, placing the cup neatly back on the tray for the servant.

Jane had taken to resting over lunch; it was the worst time of the day for her, when the sun was at its highest and food smells
seemed to drift all over the city. But at least she had been luckier than most who suffered from Indian tummy; even though
she was sick at lunch, she usually felt better most evenings.

Walking through to the bathroom, Jane ran the taps in the sink and splashed her face with cool water. She tied her hair back
and dabbed a little rouge on her cheeks. She had no idea where they were going that afternoon and she had no idea what to
wear. Rami had sent a message last night telling her to meet him at an address in the city, probably a temple, she thought,
deciding on long trousers to be safe, but you could never tell with Rami and this book he was writing, he was constantly full
of surprises.

Jane went back into the bedroom, laid her clothes out and began to dress. She slipped her feet into her sandals and collected
up her diary, sketch book and her satchel. Then she walked along the corridor, had a quick word with the bearer about what
time she would return and hurried down the steps to her bicycle. She didn’t want to be late; the message said one-thirty and
it was probably a twenty-minute cycle ride.

Phillip lay breathless on the bed, his face covered with Suzanna’s rich dark hair, his sweat-dampened body smothered with
her own. He had the most glorious feeling in his whole body, it was more than sexual satisfaction, it was a strange euphoric
power that coursed through his veins like adrenaline. He had everything, he knew that now, he had total control of the situation,
he had the power to do anything. It had worked, marrying Jane, having Suzanna and soon, having the social position he’d always
dreamed of. It had all worked, he had everything and nothing could take it away from him. He closed his eyes and stroked Suzanna’s
back. He had it all.

The blow came out of nowhere.

Before he knew what was happening, Phillip felt Suzy’s body wrenched from his own, heard her scream and felt the spasm of
fear shoot up his spine. He yanked his legs up, tearing the silk and rolled on to his side but it was too late. Another blow
hit him across the back of the head and he lost consciousness. He never heard Suzanna begging for her life or the terrified
howling as she saw the knife that came up from the assassin’s side and cut her throat.

Jane drew to a stop outside the bungalow and stayed on her bicycle, looking up at the house before checking her piece of paper
a second time. This was the right place, according to the message, it just didn’t look anything like she had expected. She
climbed off her bike and leaned it up against the wall, walking toward the front door of the bungalow. It was open; Rami was
obviously expecting her.

Walking through to the sitting-room, Jane called out and felt the smallest shiver of unease as her voice echoed in the empty
silence. She wandered back into the hall and along to the bedroom, calling out again and nervously pushing the door open.
She peered inside.

“Oh my God!” Her hand flew up to her mouth as the nausea hit the back of her throat. She gagged, gulping down air to try and
stop herself retching. She staggered forward and saw Suzanna’s hand move. Dropping to the floor, she heaved Suzanna’s naked
body on to her lap, pressing her hands on to the gash, trying to stop the flow of blood. “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus,” she cried,
“don’t die!” She started to sob as the blood seeped out uncontrollably, soaking her hands, her clothes. “Oh Jesus, no! Please…” She bent her head to try and resuscitate Suzanna. “No, please don’t die, don’t…!” She saw the eyelids flutter
and the arm twitch as the muscle went into spasm. She let the body go. Suzanna was dead, she was already dead. Crawling back,
Jane put her hands up to her face. She couldn’t stop sobbing. Clambering to her feet, she held on to the wall and groped her
way out of the room, her bloody hands staining the white plaster. She backed down the hall, still crying, terrified noisy
sobs, and at the open door she turned, ran down the steps and out on to the street, knocking a small child out of the way,
oblivious to the mother’s wail of protest. She ran to the main road, out among the cars and flagged down a taxi, screaming
Rami’s address at the driver and crawling inside, curling herself up into a ball and clawing frantically at the bloody clothes
wet on her skin.

Rami stood by the open door of the Land Rover as the mechanic started up the engine and thrust his foot down hard on to the
accelerator. He gave a small cheer as it roared to life and glanced quickly at his watch. If he left now then he’d just make
it there for the last of the lunch. The mechanic got out and Rami climbed up into the cab, placing his
kurta
on the seat beside him.

“You think it’ll be all right now?” he called. The mechanic nodded. “Great, thank you!” Rami shifted gear and reached for
the handbrake. Slowly he released the clutch and the jeep moved forward. He put his right hand up in a salute and swung the
Land Rover around. He accelerated off down the drive, stopped at the main road and glanced to his right before pulling out.
It was then that he saw Jane.