Dishonored (6 page)

His father was dead.

“Mr. Nanda, I really don’t see what this petty ruling of the maharajah’s has to do with me!” Colonel Mills sat at the head
of the long dining table in the mess and glared down the length of it at the Indian. If he’d had his way he’d have thrown
Nanda into prison along with the rest of them but the man was too highly connected, not just in Jupthana but across the country;
the colonel didn’t dare. “I would appreciate it if you would stop wasting my time!” he growled.

Nanda bowed, one eye trained on the window. “But colonel sir, the maharajah wishes your approval. He would not like to be
seen to be doing—” Nanda broke off. He caught sight of the sun glinting off a piece of polished silver in the distance and
breathed a sigh of relief. “He would like to be doing right at all times, colonel sir.” The signal had been given, the first
half of the plan was complete. “Perhaps I can assure him that is so?” He had managed to talk for some length about practically
nothing and was now eager to be away.

“Yes, yes, man! If that’s what this is all about, then yes! For God’s sake be done with it and leave me to get on with some
work!”

“Oh, thanking you most kindly, colonel sir!” Nanda bowed, backing toward the door. “Thanking you for your time.” He glanced
up and saw that the colonel had already dismissed him. He took no offense. He’d gotten what he came for, fifteen minutes of
the colonel’s time wasted, and smiling to himself, he turned and left the room.

It was black. A low, thick cloud covered the sky, obscuring he moon and stars, cutting out the light, and it was silent, the
heat and air trapped close to the ground making it humid and still.

Jagat Rai sat, his father’s hand in his, the flesh white and cold as he looked through the bars on the small window at the
ink-blue sky outside. He waited. He had no idea of the time, or how long he had held his father like that; he was conscious
of nothing but the silence. The silence enveloped.him. He was listening so hard for the eagle that his whole body strained
and it seemed the silence would go on forever.

Then he started.

The cry came twice. The first time it was muffled, smothered by the cloud, the second time it was high and clear almost as
if the bird circled overhead. It was the signal; they had come for him. Jagat looked down at his father. He leaned forward,
kissed the icy brow and stroked it with his fingertips. Then he stood, took the knife from his belt and went to the door.
He banged, thumping his fists hard against it, and shouted for the guard. He called out that his father was dead, knowing
this was the only way the door would be opened and positioning himself, he held the knife ready. As the man came into the
cell, Jagat gripped him from behind, and swiftly and silently cut his throat.

Nanda waited. He sat by the roadside with his bearer in the cover of the trees and glanced every few minutes at the horizon.
They were forty miles west of Moraphur where the border of Jupthana met the next state. From there it went on to Balisthan
and out of British jurisdiction. They had everything ready.

The next time he looked out he saw the dust. Spurring his horse forward, he made off in that direction, leaving the bearer
with the spare mounts, and, nearing the riders, he slowed to a trot, realizing there were only two.

“Jagat?” He drew alongside his friend’s son. “What’s happened? Your father?”

Jagat shook his head. He couldn’t look at Nanda.

“Dead?” Nanda reached out to touch the boy. “What…?” He saw the pain in Jagat’s eyes and broke off. “Come,” he said,
“you need to rest a while…” Turning the horse, he led the way back to the bearer.

The bearer had set a pot of water over a fire and Jagat sat near it, the firelight illuminating his face, a face much older
than its seventeen years. He drank his tea in silence, conscious of the relief to be able to drink without guilt. Unlike his
father, Jagat had eaten to keep alive, every mouthful tasting foul in the knowledge that it was deeply against his religion.

Nanda watched him as he drank, his own sadness at the loss of his friend mixed with a deep pity for the boy. He had secured
him a future, with the help of the maharajah, but it was nothing compared to what he had lost. The British government would
requisition his inheritance and he would never be able to set foot in the state again. He had escaped execution but Nanda
was still not sure if that was preferable to a life of shame.

“Jagat?” The boy looked up. “It is time for you to go. You must be out of the state before they find you have gone.”

Jagat stayed where he was. “But my mother, where is she?”

“She is safe, Jagat,” Nanda answered. “She is in hiding with one of the maharajah’s relatives. She will wait for you to send
for her.” He stood. “Please, Jagat, you must leave!”

Finally Jagat nodded and slowly got to his feet. Nanda walked with him to the horses while the bearer stamped out the fire
and began covering traces of it. The two men faced each other, then Nanda embraced his friend’s son.

“Jagat, you must avenge the gods for this murder,” he said quietly. “You will find a way.”

Jagat held on to Nanda and the years fell away; he felt like a child again. “I know…” his voice broke. Moments ater,
he turned away.

“Here.” Nanda handed him a small leather pouch. Your papers, letters from the maharajah, money…” He waited while Jagat
checked through the information, then he held out a small cloth-covered bundle. “Jagat, after the soldiers had gone, your
mother, when she went back to the house…” He saw the boy flinch at his words, hit by the sudden realization that his
home had been ransacked. He topped and gave him a little time. “This,” he went on, a few moments later, “she found this, she
wanted you to have it.” He removed the cloth and held a small jeweled bird in the balm of his hand, one of a pair and probably
the most beautiful thing Indrajit Rai had ever made. Jagat took it. “The other one had gone, but this was…”

“This was all that they left me!” Jagat suddenly spat. This!” He closed his hand over the bird and clenched his list. “This…” He looked up at Nanda. “This is the British justice that my father believed in,” he said quietly. Nanda heard the icy
anger in his voice and his heart leaped. The boy would need that anger.

“Yes,” he whispered urgently, “this is the British justice that he died for!” He gripped Jagat’s arm. “Remember that,” he
urged, “every time you look at the bird remember that!” Nanda released him. “Now go! Hurry, before any more time is lost!”
He helped Jagat mount, looking up at his figure as he pulled the headdress around his mouth and covered his face. He slapped
the horse’s flank and Jagat moved off.

“Ride like the wind!” he called out, and the boy looked back at him, a look so like his father’s that Nanda’s heart ached.
“Go on! Go!” he shouted. “Go!” And, straining his eyes in the darkness, he watched the horse and rider until they were just
a tiny dot on the horizon and the sound of them had blurred into the muffled noises of the night.

London

March 1965

M
ITCHELL
H
ARVEY’S LONG BLACK
B
ENTLEY PULLED UP AT THE
entrance to the departures terminal at Heathrow airport and parked on a double yellow line. The driver climbed out, beckoned
to a porter and went around the back to open up the trunk. The two pieces of luggage were loaded on to the trolley, the porter
directed to the check-in desk and the driver climbed back in. He glanced in the rearview mirror, saw that the glass screen
was up, and, staring straight ahead, waited for further instructions.

In the back of the car, Mitchell Harvey sat with his wife. He took her left hand, briefly glanced down at the three-carat
diamond on her fourth finger and held her hand loosely in his own.

“Suzanna?”

She turned to him, her face cold and impassive.

“I will be arriving at the villa in five days’ time,” he said. “Margaret has my flight details and my itinerary; she will
be in touch.”

Suzy nodded.

“I expect you’ll want to do a bit of shopping,” he remarked. “With the season fast approaching.” Again she nodded without
speaking. Mitchell reached into the breast pocket of his suit and took out a thick roll of fifty-pound notes; he laid them
carefully in Suzanna’s lap.

“Suzanna?”

She looked down at the money and then turned away from him, her nostrils flaring with distaste. Mitchell squeezed her fingers,
knowing the diamond cut into her flesh.

“Thank you, Mitchell,” she said after a few moments.

He nodded, keeping up the pressure, then he said quietly, “You will remember what we discussed won’t you, Suzy?”

He waited for her to answer, slowly crushing her fingers as she took her time to reply. She winced at the pain but remained
silent.

“I asked you a question, Suzanna!” he suddenly snapped, wrenching her hand toward him and making her cry out with the pain.
He held his fist up, her long thin fingers white and bloodless in his hand. “I won’t have it,” he snarled. “Not now, not any
more!” With his other hand he pulled her face around, pressing his nails into her cheeks. “I have been very patient, but people
are talking, they are talking about a kept man, a gigolo and they are laughing at me, Suzanna! I don’t like to be laughed
at!” He let go of her face and she dropped her head, forcing back the tears. “Do you understand me?”

Swallowing down the urge to scream at the pain in her hand she managed to nod. Then Mitchell suddenly released her fingers
and a sharp pain shot up her wrist as the blood flowed back.

“I will not tolerate the situation anymore,” Mitchell said calmly, smoothing his suit jacket as if nothing had happened. “And
don’t try to lie to me, Suzy; I know exactly what you are doing.” He reached forward and pressed the buzzer. “Always.” Seconds
later the door was opened by his driver and he climbed out while Suzanna waited for her own door. Wearily, she stepped on
to the pavement, shivered in the cool early-morning air and took Mitchell’s arm, escorting him to the check-in desk. She waited,
smiled at the young blond man behind the counter and wondered vaguely whether he was Mitchell’s type. Then Mitchell turned
to her, kissed her cheek, and taking his briefcase from the driver, he turned on his heel without another word and strode
toward passport control.

“Goodbye, Mitchell,” she murmured under her breath and, thoroughly miserable, walked slowly back to the car.

Later that morning, Suzanna Harvey walked out of Biba, laden with carrier bags. She had spent Mitchell’s money; all of it.
It was the only thing about her husband that gave her any pleasure—the money. It was the only reason she had married him.
She held the door open for the young man behind her and he followed her out on to the pavement, carrying another four huge
black-and-gold bags and watching the slim curved shape of her bottom in front, clearly visible in her tight, bright-red miniskirt.
Her taxi was waiting. The meter was running, with four pounds ten already on the clock, and the driver jumped out at the sight
of her, opening the back door and letting his eyes travel over the expanse of thigh she showed as she climbed into the cab.
Crossing her legs, she bent and smoothed the soft black suede on her knee-length boots and then looked up at the driver who
hadn’t taken his eyes off her legs.

“The bags?”

“Oh, yes, sorry…” He coughed, embarrassed, and turned to the young man, taking the bags and placing them neatly alongside
the front seat in the cab. Suzanna leaned out of the window, handed the young sales assistant a ten-shilling note, and glanced
nervously behind her. Satisfied that there was no one following her, she relaxed back and opened a copy of
Harpers and Queen
.

“Where to, Mrs. Harvey?” The driver strained to look at her over his shoulder; it was a while since he’d seen a pair of legs
like that.

She glanced up. “Home of course,” she answered archly. Despite the shopping, her mood hadn’t lightened.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath as he indicated and pulled out into the traffic. “I’m a bleedin’ mind reader, ain’t
I?”

Major Phillip Mills let himself into the flat in Grosvenor Square, dropped the keys of Suzy’s Mercedes in an ashtray on the
hall table and put his suitcase down by the front door, calling out to Suzy. He smoothed his hair back off his temples and
checked his appearance in the mirror. The tan suited him, his clean-cut angular face was more pronounced by the deep brown
and his hair had lightened to almost blond. He smiled, pleased with himself, and called out again.

“Suzy? Darling?” He could hardly wait to see her.

He strode through to the huge sitting room, then the bedroom and realized she was out. Disappointed, he dropped on to the
sofa, put his feet up and reached for the top copy off a pile of
Vogues
. He lit himself a cigarette. This was Suzanna Harvey’s
pied-à-terre,
a base she used when she came up to London and didn’t want the bother of opening up the Regent’s Park house. It was a present
from her husband, a sweetener they called it privately, and Phillip Mills had helped her decorate it, had bought the furniture
with her, chosen the bed. Naturally, he treated it as he would his own home.