The avatari, p.1
The Avatari, page 1
THE AVATARI
RAGHU SRINIVASAN
First published in India in 2014 by Hachette India
(Registered name: Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd)
An Hachette UK company
www.hachetteindia.com
This ebook published in 2014
Copyright © 2014 Raghu Srinivasan
Raghu Srinivasan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Map on page vii illustrated by Sworup Nhasiju
All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system (including but not limited to computers, disks, external drives, electronic or digital devices, e-readers, websites), or transmitted in any form or by any means (including but not limited to cyclostyling, photocopying, docutech or other reprographic reproductions, mechanical, recording, electronic, digital versions)without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Certified that the views expressed and suggestions made in the book are made by the author in his personal capacity and do not have any official endorsement.
Print ISBN 978-93-5009-574-4
Ebook edition ISBN 978-93-5009-601-7
Cover design by Siddharth Dasari
Originally typeset in Adobe Jenson Pro 10/13
by Ram Das Lal, NCR Delhi
Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd
4th & 5th Floors, Corporate Centre
Plot No. 94, Sector 44, Gurgaon 122003, India
For Appa, who I’m sure would have
been a bit surprised; and very proud
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Postscript
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE
The Monastery of the White Elephant, Louangphrabang
1986
The man made his way silently along the corridor, his body almost hugging the wall. His head was covered with the cowl of his robe and his movements were quick and jerky. He needn’t have been quite so furtive; the whole monastery was asleep and there were still two hours left before bleary-eyed young acolytes began sounding the gong to awaken the other monks. The man’s heart was pounding so hard he could hear it beat above the murmur of the Mae Nam Khong, the Mekong River, which ran along the monastery’s stone walls.
When he came to his destination, a room to the right, he pushed aside the curtains and stepped in without sparing a glance at the dark corridor he had sneaked through. He stood silently in the doorway for some time, till his eyes had adjusted to the dim light in the room. The tiny glow of light in the corner from a brass lamp, half-filled with butter, failed to reach the low wooden bed in the centre, where the Teacher lay deep in slumber, his bulky form half covered by a white sheet. The intruder stared at the sleeping man and listened intently to his soft, whistling snores. His eyes darted to the room’s single window; the shutters had been thrown open and the smell of the river, flowing two storeys below, wafted up to him.
When his eyes had fully adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the Teacher was lying in a foetal position, buttocks slightly raised; the position made him look somewhat ridiculous. The man stood absolutely motionless, making sure the Teacher hadn’t stirred and was still fast asleep. After several minutes had passed, he crouched forward and knelt at the foot of the bed. From the folds of his robe, he took out a pair of khems – needles – one of the eight worldly items mandated to all Buddhist monks. He also brought out a small glass bottle, half-filled with a translucent, viscous fluid. Opening the bottle carefully, the man dipped the needles in the liquid till they were half-submerged. He pulled the needles out and placed the bottle gently on the floor.
With a needle in each hand, he leaned over and pricked the sleeping man just above the ankle with surgical precision, making sure that one of the needles went into the artery and that the two pinpricks were half an inch apart. As he pulled out the needles, he held his breath, crouching on the balls of his feet and ready to spring up and flee should the need arise. But the Teacher merely stirred to change his position and straighten his knees so that he was now sleeping on his stomach.
Crouching at the foot of the bed, the intruder forced his breathing to return to normal and maintained his vigil. Forty-five minutes. The Kammu medicine man had said it would take that much time for the poison – the venom of the ngu tab tan, the Blue Krait, sixteen times more potent than the cobra’s – to take effect. The alpha neurotoxin would paralyse the victim as it moved up through the artery. The medicine man had been right about the victim not feeling the jabs of the needle; many victims of the ngu tab tan died in their sleep without ever knowing they had been bitten.
After an hour had passed, the intruder felt certain that the poison had taken effect. The snores of the sleeping man had subsided ten minutes ago and there were no visible signs of him breathing. The intruder now moved to the head of the bed, rubbing the stiffness from his legs. Leaning low over the Teacher, he gingerly felt his neck and found the cotton thread from which a single key dangled. Taking the key between his fingers, he carefully removed the string, pulling it over the man’s head. Suddenly, he froze; the Teacher’s eyes had opened and were focused on him! He felt his insides turn to water as the prostrate man’s lips moved, trying to form words. Involuntarily, the intruder leaned forward to catch them.
‘You will embrace the third sister as well,’ the dying man’s voice rasped, sounding very tired, his eyes devoid of expression. Then his eyelids drooped and the Teacher slumped forward, saliva dripping in an uncontrollable stream from his mouth.
Clutching the key in his trembling hand, the assassin knew he should be elated, but instead felt tears streaming down his cheeks. He knew the curse of the dying man would haunt him in the days to come.
CHAPTER 1
Yorkshire, England
AUGUST 1986
It had not rained very heavily the previous night; the ground, though damp, was still firm. Henry Ashton got off the trail, running through the woods and on to the tarred road that wound its way uphill to Stiles, the manor house that had been with his family since the Boer War. His boots were wet, plastered with the leaves of ferns and gorse he had been tramping through, and he shrugged off the droplets of water which had dripped from the trees onto his waterproof. When he left the house after lunch, it was foggy and overcast; the weather had improved since. It would be nightfall soon enough, but it was still bright; the light lasted a mite longer this time of the year. Ashton took the incline slowly. Not that he was tired, but the leg was giving him trouble again; it did in wet weather.
Soon, he had reached the manor’s tall wrought-iron gates. One stood open; a car had evidently passed through. He could make out its muddy tyre marks on the gravel drive. Someone is visiting, he thought. Quite unusual. People usually took the trouble to call in, considering that Stiles was at a dead end, six miles from the village through wooded country. He walked through the open gate, pulling it shut after him. His grandfather, Lord Mortimer Ashton, the man who had built Stiles, had been something of a recluse. He had chosen his house wisely, if you went for that sort of thing. Ten-foot-high lime-and-stone walls, crowned with broken glass, enclosed the property, the only access to it being the gates his grandson had just passed through.
There were two cars parked in front of the house. He recognized one – the Panda belonged to Constable Heron. The other was a Bentley with police markings he hadn’t seen in the village before; he guessed it was from the County Headquarters. What the devil was going on? A young police constable in uniform stood next to it, with the police radio on. As Ashton passed by, she mumbled a greeting. He nodded in acknowledgement, although he hadn’t seen her before. He thought about asking her what this was all about, then quickly changed his mind. The people who had arrived in these cars were probably already inside the house. He assumed that if they had taken the trouble to drive all the way here, they were going to tell him what had brought them. He also wanted his tea.
He climbed up the front steps and used the old-fashioned knocker on the heavy oak doors. Duggy, his house manager, had no doubt been waiting in the hallway, for he opened the door almost instantly. Henry Ashton raised his eyebrows enquiringly, but the other man simply shook his head. Behind him stood another police constable.
‘I don’t know, sir. They wouldn’t tell me,’ Duggy finally offered in response to Ashton’s unasked question, then added, ‘there was a cal l while you were out. From a Mr Liu Than who said he had come from London and urgently wanted to meet you. I took the liberty of calling him over for tea. It could well be about that.’
Ashton glanced over his house manager’s shoulder at the young constable who was staring blandly at the hallway, but probably taking in every nuance of their exchange.
‘They are waiting for you in the library, Mr Heron and an inspector whose name I didn’t quite catch,’ the house manager now informed Ashton. ‘Go on, sir. I’ll send Martha with the tea.’
‘Thanks very much, Duggy.’
Ashton hung his waterproof and slouch hat on the coat hooks and took off his overboots in the hallway. He ran his fingers through his short but thick salt-and-pepper hair and straightened his scarf as he walked into the library. The police inspector and Constable Heron, who had been seated at the table, rose to their feet as he entered. Ashton nodded at George Heron who was looking flushed. His companion, a tall, dark-haired man, flicked the constable a sideways glance before holding out his hand.
‘Good evening, Sir Henry. I’m Peter Orwell,’ the man said, taking Ashton’s hand in a warm, friendly grip. ‘Just taken over as inspector at Bromwich and haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you, sir.’ Turning to acknowledge the presence of the constable, he added, ‘George here tells me how well regarded your family is in these parts. And, indeed, you yourself are held in high esteem, sir.’
As they shook hands, both men sized each other up. The inspector’s voice was deep and sincere. He looked younger than George, though Ashton guessed he was older. The inspector had noticed that Ashton was about his own height, only more powerfully built. His amiable expression and twinkling grey eyes offset the strong rugged features and square jaw which would otherwise have made the man distinctly imposing. To the manor born, he thought wryly.
‘Indeed,’ Henry Ashton reciprocated, turning from the inspector to the other man, whose hand felt somewhat moist in his own. ‘Please sit down, gentlemen.’
Ashton and the two men sat facing each other across the table. He had noticed they were already halfway through their tea.
‘Well,’ he said, looking at the inspector, ‘how can I help you gentlemen? I take it this is not a social call?’
‘You’re right there, Sir Henry,’ the inspector admitted. ‘There has been something of – how shall I put it – an incident hereabouts. You wouldn’t mind if I asked you some questions, would you?’
Ashton cocked his head to one side, an amused smile on his face, and replied, ‘I don’t think my minding would make much difference, Inspector. But please go right ahead.’
He poured himself a cup of tea from the pot which Martha had carried in on a tray and placed in front of him.
The inspector didn’t smile back. ‘Were you expecting anyone?’ he asked. ‘I mean, the man your house manager would probably have told you about when you came in? A Mr Liu Than?’
‘No, not really,’ Ashton replied. ‘Can’t really say I have ever heard the name.’
‘Take your time, sir,’ the inspector persisted. ‘Perhaps someone you had asked to come by a while ago and had forgotten to tell your house manager about?’ Orwell paused, then added, ‘A young, slightly built, clean-shaven Oriental man with long hair? A student type?’
The inspector turned and stared pointedly at the assorted figurines of the Buddha on the shelves.
Ashton shook his head. ‘During my days in the army, I’d been around in the East and met many people of that description.’ He smiled politely. ‘But no, I don’t think I know the man. Maybe if I saw him, it would ring a bell.’
‘How about your house manager? Does he have relatives or friends who drop by?’
‘Duggy? Surely you’ve already asked him that question? Well, none of his relatives have ever come here to visit. And then he’s a Gurkha, while this name you just mentioned – Liu Than – is not a Nepali name.’
There was a silence. Ashton took a sip of his tea, then looked at the inspector and asked gently, ‘Now, shouldn’t you be telling me what this is all about?’
‘Yes, of course,’ the inspector agreed, though his hesitation suggested he might be weighing how much it would be prudent to disclose.
He took out a small spiral-bound diary from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of him. He flipped through the pages, referring to his notes.
‘Well, sir,’ he began, ‘there has been, as I said earlier, an incident, to put it mildly. A young man – Oriental, Chinese, whatever – who gave his name as Liu Than arrived this afternoon, possibly from London, in a taxi and made his way to the Wordsworth Arms in the village.’ The inspector paused before continuing, ‘According to the landlady, Mrs Harris, the man, who had a student ID from the London School of Economics, had checked into one of the rooms at the inn before coming downstairs and asking if you lived nearby. When she told him you did, he made a call from the desk to Stiles and spoke to your house manager. He then asked Mrs Harris to help him call a cab that would take him to your place. We had his name checked out with LSE; they don’t have any student by that name. So the ID was probably forged. We have also asked Scotland Yard to help us trace the cab the young man hired to get to the village.’
The inspector rocked back in his chair and continued, ‘Liu Than took the local cab at around 3.30 p.m. and started off for your place. Talked a bit on the way, asked about you, according to the cabbie, who turned out to be quite chatty himself. Quite an anomaly hereabouts, I would imagine.’
The inspector paused, his amused glance straying in George’s direction. The constable remained impervious to the implied dig and continued to stare stolidly at his pad. Ashton observed that George’s face was still flushed. Something had rattled the man and that was unusual; he didn’t rattle easily.
‘May I smoke, sir?’ the inspector asked politely.
In response, Ashton took his cigarette case out of his pocket, snapped it open and held it out to the other man. The inspector accepted a cigarette. Taking one himself, Ashton shut the case and put it back in his pocket. Meanwhile, the inspector had fished out a lighter. Leaning forward, he lit Ashton’s cigarette before lighting his own.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the inspector said. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘it seems the cabbie knew you.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘Jimmy Holmes?’ He looked at Ashton enquiringly.
‘The local grocer’s son. Yes, I do know him; he has been accepted at Sandhurst. Frightfully keen to join up, he had asked me about the army. I shared some of my experiences, though I did warn him I was frightfully out of date,’ he replied. ‘I imagine he’ll be leaving for Belfast at the end of the month for his military training before joining Sandhurst.’
‘I see,’ the inspector replied, looking thoughtful. ‘Well, Jimmy and Liu Than were apparently followed on their way here by two Land Rovers. Jimmy initially assumed it was just his passenger’s overactive imagination at work. But when the vehicles followed them right up to the place where the bylane leading to Stiles branches off from the main road, he was convinced that something was up. At this point, the Oriental gentleman apparently became terribly agitated and urged Jimmy to hurry, whereupon our young man led those Land Rovers on quite a chase. At the lay-by after the arch bridge, one of the vehicles overtook them, almost pushing them into the gulley so that they were forced to stop. It was here that the Oriental gentleman jumped out of the vehicle and made a dash for the woods, with seven or eight men wearing ski masks in hot pursuit. Interestingly enough, although they were armed, they didn’t fire at him.’
‘Needed to get him alive,’ Ashton murmured softly, not wishing to disturb the flow of the inspector’s narrative.
‘Precisely. Well, they approached him from all directions and began closing in. Then comes the interesting part. Our Oriental friend sits down on the ground, pours something on himself – lighter fluid, possibly – and sets himself on fire. Jimmy says it was quite a blaze! The trees nearby were charred and if it hadn’t been for last night’s drizzle, putting out that fire would have been quite a job for the forest chaps.’
The hair on the back of Ashton’s neck bristled. He could feel his temples throbbing. No wonder George was looking rattled! He brought his cigarette up to his lips and squinted through the smoke.
