Borrowed Time

Whitlock was an instantly likeable man, in nature and appearance. He was a native Kenyan whose white grandfather’s genes had bestowed a light umber skin, a strong jaw and a firm mouth, which Whitlock softened with a moustache.

‘The letter was sent to the Security Council, they passed it along to us. Do you want to read it?’

‘Later, perhaps,’ Philpott said. ‘Summarize for me.’

Whitlock leafed down through the documents to find the letter and his notes. Philpott couldn’t help watching him. He was incredibly fastidious in his movements, a man who had been described by a former Secretary General as fitting his role so well that it might have been moulded around him. He breathed aptitude.

‘Here it is.’ Whitlock put the letter on the desk with the notes alongside. ‘It’s from the Reverend Alex Young, a Church of England priest. He runs a medical and teaching mission at Shahdara, a village near the town of Tangmarg in the Vale of Kashmir.’

‘What does he want?’

‘He’s asking the UN to do something to curb the growing violence of the Muslim separatists, and the increasing influence of drug peddlers in the region. In a recent flare-up a local doctor’s gardener was killed. The doctor in question is Simon Arberry, an American, who’s doing big things with his public medical centres.’

‘There was something in Scientific American …’

‘Currently the Arberry Foundation is setting up a free hospital for the people of the region,’ Whitlock said. ‘Anyway, among Reverend Young’s other concerns, he seems worried that the unrest and physical danger might drive the good Dr Arberry out of the area, which would set the public care programmes back a long way.’

Philpott picked up the top page of the letter. ‘“This is one of the most serenely beautiful places in the world”,’ he read aloud. ‘“It is a perfect spot to live, but the increase in drug trafficking and the disruptive influence of the extremists, fomenting ill feeling between Indian and Pakistani elements, threaten to plunge the region into bloody war.”’

He put the page back. ‘That’s hardly news to the UN,’ he said. ‘Most of our observers know the root of the trouble lies west of Kashmir.’

‘Afghanistan.’ Whitlock nodded. ‘I gather it all started for real when the Russians left.’

‘The last Soviet troops pulled out of Kabul in 1989, and since then Afghanistan’s turned into a breeding ground for Islamic activist groups. Nobody’s clear on the details of the various schisms and squabbles, but they do involve territorial ambition, much of it centring on Kashmir.’

Whitlock looked at his notes. ‘A number of activist-terrorist groups are keen to extend the Pakistani-held Azad region of Kashmir to absorb the Indian-held areas. Some of them even want to take away the north-eastern territory, which has been occupied by China since 1962.’

‘Lord,’ Philpott breathed. ‘Can you imagine what that might lead to?’

Whitlock rummaged in his notes. ‘I have a status bulletin filed with the Security Council in August 1996.’

There was a tap on the door. It opened and Mike Graham put his head round the side. He looked troubled.

‘How’s the report coming?’ Philpott asked him.

‘There’s been a serious emergency,’ Mike said.

Philpott and Whitlock stared at him, waiting. Mike came into the room and closed the door. He wore jeans, cowboy boots and a black cotton shirt. He pushed the fingers of both hands through his dark hair.

‘My coffee machine broke down,’ he said.

Philpott grunted and waved at his miniature Gaggia machine on the long sideboard. ‘Help yourself.’

Whitlock found the Security Council status bulletin.

‘The meat of it is, in the summer of ‘96 a number of Islamic extremists, trained in Afghan terrorist camps, were infiltrating the Pakistani and Indian regions of Kashmir, rousing the rabble, spreading the message that Kashmir is rightly the territory of Muslim Pakistan.’

He ran his finger down the sheet and read out a section. ‘“Also, by sporadic acts of assassination and sabotage, they cause civil unrest and increasing disquiet among beleaguered minorities. The authorities in India and China, meanwhile, fear the loss of control.”’

Mike Graham came across with his cup of coffee. ‘Do I smell work?’

‘Too early to say.’ Philpott looked at Whitlock again. ‘Any conclusions in the bulletin?’

‘They said the problem still wasn’t serious, but events had to be watched closely. Any corrective steps taken by the Indian or Chinese authorities, or by both, could result in widespread conflict.’

‘This is the Islamic campaign in Kashmir you’re talking about?’ Mike said.

‘Well spotted, Michael,’ Philpott said. ‘So you don’t just read motorbike magazines all the time.’

‘Sure I do. But I have my radio on a lot and things filter through. What’s the pitch?’

As group leader of UNACO Task Force Three, Mike was entitled to know. Whitlock told him about the letter from Reverend Young.

‘Could I study a copy?’

‘Oh, use the photocopier, too, while you’re here,’ Philpott said. ‘And if you can spare the time, I’ve got a new shoe-polisher that might divert you for a while.’

‘What do you think?’ Mike said. ‘Is this a case for us?’

Philpott wasn’t sure. ‘We are an anti-crime organization. The crimes cited here are big enough to be classified as aggressive political activity, and that’s not our bag.’

Whitlock nodded. ‘Pretty much what I thought.’

‘But, as ever,’ Philpott said, ‘I’ll consider the matter, I’ll think long and hard about it, and I’ll issue a decision before the end of the week.’

Mike brought back the letter from the photocopier and handed it to Whitlock.

‘Have you any special interest in Kashmir?’ Philpott asked.

‘Not really.’ Like Whitlock, Mike radiated an amiable charm which he often used to deflect other people’s curiosity. He did that now. He smiled and shrugged. ‘You know me, sir. I like to keep up to speed on what’s being thrown our way.’

‘Fine,’ Philpott said, ‘as long as it doesn’t interfere with the speed of your report.’

As Mike left the office Philpott told Whitlock he had a favour to ask. ‘I want a thorough, confidential investigation into the background of a man called Arno Skuttnik who died, apparently of natural causes, at his lodgings in the Village last night. Make use of any resources you need. Keep all the details of your enquiry strictly off-record.’

‘Can I ask what it’s about?’

Philpott frowned for a moment. ‘Yes, all right.’

He told Whitlock about the snapshot, and how Secretary Crane was intent on using it as a lever to apply restrictive legislation against UNACO. ‘It’s a tiny problem at present, but soon enough we may need all the help we can get.’

Whitlock picked up his folder. ‘I’ll see what I can do, sir.’

2 (#ulink_d2b007c0-329e-5d0b-ae03-6b0c08facc2f)

Inside UNACO Mike Graham was known to be a fiercely practical operator, a man of action. A top-level UN communiqué of November 1996 described him as ‘a swift, focused instrument of international law and order’. He was a man who would have attracted medals had he served in a conventional army. His superiors and his colleagues knew all that, but what they remembered most about Mike Graham was that, years ago, terrorists had murdered his wife and baby son.

The drawn-out agony of his loss damaged Mike brutally, and for months afterwards he was beyond consolation. When grief had finally run its course he moved from New York to Vermont and there he took up a solitary off-duty existence — tranquil, controlled, relatively happy. That outcome was achieved, in great part, by the patient friendship of Lenny Trent, an agent of Drugwatch International. Now, an hour after reading the letter from Reverend Young in Kashmir, Mike was suddenly reminded of his old friend.