The Truth (16 page)

When he heard the door close, Mabbut whispered into the darkness, ‘Farud?’

There was no answer.

He whispered a little louder.

‘Farud?’

Farud’s voice came back, small and fearful.

‘I told you we should not have come here. This is bad country.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘We are in deep trouble. These people are Naxals.’

Mabbut had read about the Naxalites. They were Maoists, named after the place called Naxalbari, north of Calcutta, where the movement had begun. Anti-capitalist, anti-government and to the left of the left, they frightened the life out of everyone, including those they were trying to help. The authorities had just issued bellicose statements that the time had finally come to rid India of these people; indeed, Mabbut had heard that military action was imminent. No wonder they were touchy.

‘What is their problem?’

‘You.’

‘Me?’

At that moment he felt a welcome breath of air as the door was pushed open. More orders were issued and his blindfold was removed. A young man in army fatigues stooped to enter the room. His complexion was lighter than that of most of his colleagues, his oval face severe and unsmiling. In the top pocket of his combat jacket was a neatly clipped row of pens and in his hand was a steaming bowl of freshly cooked rice and meat. He gave instructions, without shouting, and two men, one of them quite severely astigmatic, came forward, dragged Farud and Nirwan to their feet and bundled them out of the room.

The man smoothly lowered himself into the lotus position and set the food in front of him. Whatever it was, it seemed like the best thing Mabbut had ever seen. Pushing back the sleeves of his fatigues the man reached out and took a large forkful, which he ate slowly and with pleasure.

The man had seemed almost like a friend when he came in, not rough or bemused like the rest. A man with some style. A man he could talk to. So the fact that this person was not only not talking to him but was blatantly ignoring the most elementary rule of hospitality, the sharing of food, caused Mabbut to experience a sudden, and quite profound, sense of his own vulnerability.

It must have taken the man the best part of ten minutes to clear his bowl. Then he called out, not loudly, but with authority, and within a moment a jug of water and a single cup was produced. He drank deeply and appreciatively, again ignoring Mabbut.

Finally, pushing the empty bowl to one side, he reached into a breast pocket and extracted a cigarette. He lit it, and looking Mabbut in the eye, he exhaled slowly. When he spoke his English was nearly perfect.

‘You have eaten well for many years. We have a long way to go before we catch up.’

‘I don’t know what’s going on here, but . . .’

‘You don’t know what’s going on here? Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Obvious?’

‘You read the newspapers. People like you always read the newspapers. And you watch the television, listen to your radio. Don’t tell me you don’t know what’s going on here.’

‘I’m sorry, but I . . .’

‘It’s a war. A war between those who have eaten well for many years and the rest of us. You come here with your cranes and your bulldozers and you take our land, our culture and our way of life, so we come here to fight you. You are my enemy.’

All this was delivered in a soft, beguiling voice. There was no aggression or threat in his tone. The man drew another deep breath and exhaled. When he spoke again his voice was flat and matter-of-fact.

‘The two Indians you are with will be taken into the jungle. You will not see them again.’

Mabbut, sweating profusely a second ago, felt a cold wave chase up his back.

‘Don’t harm them, they’ve done nothing.’

‘They’ve done nothing, that’s true. When they could have done something they’ve done nothing. They would rather help you than help their own people. What do you call them in your country? Traitors?’

Outside there were cries and shouts, then silence.

‘Look, they gave me a ride here, that’s all.’

The man rose and walked close to Mabbut, staring down at him, contemptuously.

‘The car is licensed to one of the most expensive hotels in Bhubaneswar. We know them well. They provide all the cars for Astramex. Are you telling me you just happened to hitch a ride?’

Mabbut wished with all his being that he’d never let Ron Latham near this thing. He’d wanted to come to India under cover, move as and when he wanted, but Latham had insisted on the car and the hotel. ‘It’s our money, Keith, remember that.’ Well, now look where that money had got him. Quite possibly facing execution. And only three days into the trip.

‘I’m not with any company,’ he began.

‘You’re lying.’

‘Why should I lie?’

‘You have maps marked with the route to the refinery. You have a camera.’ He reached into a pocket on the side of his trousers and held up a thick wad of thousand-rupee notes. ‘You have money.’

Mabbut realised with a growing sense of helplessness that they must have searched the car thoroughly, his bag included.

‘Yes, Mr Keith Mabbut, I know where you are going, and your men will confirm this when we take them into the jungle.’

‘Look, I’m just a tourist. I have no links with any company.’

‘If you were a tourist you wouldn’t be here. Tourists go to the temples.’

Try as he might, Mabbut could not keep the desperation from his voice.

‘I wanted to see the interior. I wanted to see the local people. I don’t like going where everyone else goes. I hate crowds.’

He saw a momentary flicker in the other man’s eyes. For the first time in this chilling encounter he sensed a hint of an advantage. It was his only chance. He must lie, and lie well.

‘I’m an independent traveller. I like to see what I want to see. Nobody is telling me what to do. I am not working on anyone else’s account, believe me.’

He would never know whether his interrogator was on the point of believing him or not, for at that moment the first four bars of Beethoven’s Fifth emanated from Mabbut’s trouser pocket. His mobile phone was the one thing they hadn’t found. As the chords jangled out again, Mabbut opened and closed his mouth soundlessly.

His captor came up close behind him and pulled off the strap around his wrists.

‘Answer that.’

Mabbut slowly withdrew his phone. As he raised it to his ear, the man reached down and snatched it away from him. Eyes fixed on Mabbut, he put the phone to his ear.

‘Yes?’

Someone went by the door. A child laughed and was quickly silenced.

‘Yes, Mr Mabbut is here. Who shall I say is calling?’

There was a short pause and then an extraordinary transformation came over his face. He straightened up and the air of menace was replaced by one of concern. He ran a tongue across his lips and nodded.

‘Yes. OK.’

Glowering, he lowered the phone and handed it back to Mabbut.

Mabbut tried to keep his voice under control.

‘Hallo?’

The reply was not at all what he expected. A slow, rolling, half-amused drawl, almost a chuckle. And just a hint of a Scottish accent.

‘So you’ve found the real people?’

Never had a voice been more welcome. Even if it was taunting him.

‘Yes, I have. I have indeed.’

‘I hope they’re treating you well.’

‘They think I’m with the mineral company.’

‘Most of you are.’

Mabbut was seized, very briefly, with a renewed sense of panic.

‘I have nothing to do with them!’

‘Well, you seem to have fooled my people at the guest house, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Until I see for myself, that is. Hand me back to Romera.’

Mabbut must have betrayed a moment’s confusion.

‘Romera,’ Melville repeated. ‘The man who wants to kill you.’

FIVE

I
t was two in the afternoon when he awoke. The inside of the tent was womb-like and powerfully hot. He looked twice at his travel clock, then lay back staring for a while at the peak of the tent. The first thing that struck him was that there was a peak at all, making the tent feel more like a tepee. And no polyester or aluminium ribbing here – this was a proper canvas tent, awakening childhood memories of campsites and fruit gums.

It had been almost light when he finally got to sleep, after Melville’s men had come to the village and extracted him. Nirwan and Farud, who had been taken into the forest, had already left. So terrified had they been that as soon as they were freed they’d headed hell for leather back to their homes and wives and children, leaving Mabbut no option but to go wherever he was taken. The two very dark-skinned, wide-eyed boys Melville had sent to collect him had smiled a lot but spoke no English, so Mabbut could glean no information about where they were or where he was being taken. They had arrived with a flourish an hour or so after Melville’s call, their battered jeep racing into the village ahead of a cloud of rising dust. They looked as though they were enjoying what they were doing, and were received with envious admiration by the younger villagers. The older men and women had remained aloof, clearly still intimidated by the insurgents in their midst.

Mabbut pulled aside the tent flap and looked around him. He was in a circular encampment outside a small village of mud and wattle huts. Majestic trees stood in isolation among wispy brown grassland, giving the impression of some great estate gone to seed. Mabbut could see no one else around, but then his eye was caught by movement in the village, and the sound of a voice. He looked
again and saw a young child leaning out from the corner of a hut, staring towards him. He waved. The child disappeared.

Mabbut felt an urgent need to relieve himself. There was a stout tree near by so he walked over and stood behind it, making sure he was hidden from the village. As his pee hissed copiously on to the dry grass, he luxuriated in the pleasant sense of relief on all fronts. Then he heard a noise and, peering warily out from behind the trunk, he found three small boys standing in a line, watching him curiously.

The tallest of the three seemed to be the spokesman.

‘Toilet,’ he said, leading Mabbut to one of the farthest tents. He solemnly pulled aside the flap to reveal a privy, towel rail and canvas basin with water beside it.

‘
Shukriya!
Thank you,’ said Mabbut, hoping that a wide, self-deprecating smile would encourage them to laugh at his foolishness. If anything, it merely added a hint of pity to their serious, uncomprehending gaze. On an impulse, he returned to his tent, rummaged around in his things and retrieved a quarter-pound bag of Glacier Mints. He took out three and turned back to the children, only to find that another three had joined them. He went back to the bag and took out more sweets, by which time six more expectant faces had gathered. This time he brought out the bag. There were just enough to go round. The smaller boys clutched the tiny white polar bears warily until the ringleader popped one in his mouth. Soon there were more than a dozen little jaws at work. In the distance Mabbut could see a row of veiled heads peering curiously over the scrub-and-stick fence at the edge of the village. There were shouts and the children turned and ran home.

Mabbut gratefully took the last mint in the bag, aware that he was not only hungry but hot. Seeking the shade of the tent, he took out his notebook and pen. The last twenty-four hours had been so extraordinary he scarcely knew where to begin. In fact he couldn’t begin. Writing things down had been his life, but at this moment, words felt superfluous. He was in the grip of events. He sat cross-legged on his low bed and, a little nervously at first, he listened to the silence around him.

After what seemed a very long time he heard whispers and a small
hand reached in and cautiously pulled aside his tent flap. It was the same boy who’d spoken to him earlier.

‘Food,’ he said, beckoning Mabbut outside.

The boy had not come alone and a much emboldened little group greeted Mabbut’s emergence from the tent with a puckering of lips and a raising of fingers to mouths. Their ringleader pushed them aside and, taking Mabbut by the hand, led him towards the village.

Mabbut wasn’t sure what he’d been given to eat. It was some kind of corn mash, sticky and substantial but not particularly tasty. It was served with rice and chillies, in a bowl made from a large leaf that had been folded and pierced at either end with sharpened sticks. He ate in the cool semi-darkness of a room in one of the huts. In shape and size the room was almost identical to the one in which he’d been interrogated the night before. Two young women and an older man sat with him, while some of the bigger children watched from the doorway, silhouetted against the sunlight. They were not short of entertainment as Mabbut struggled both with the lotus position and with the unfamiliar technique of eating with his fingers. The older man, it seemed, couldn’t bear to watch such incompetence and, bending low, he disappeared into the recesses of the house. The women, elaborately ornamented, gazed impassively at Mabbut. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see that the doorways on both sides were bordered with ornate patterns in what looked like pen and wash. After a while the older man reappeared with half a coconut shell full of a sharp-smelling milky juice. Mabbut took it, bowed, and sipped gratefully. Whatever it was, it wasn’t milk. After another more cautious draught he handed it back. The man smiled broadly and insisted he drink again. After which he could remember very little.