Age of Shiva (The Pantheon Series) (41 page)

“R. J.’s pet project. I know about you guys. The Trinity Syndicate’s gambled about a gazillion bucks on you. What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be on Mount Mary or whatever the damn place is called?”

“Things have... changed.”

“Changed, huh? How so?”

“Let’s just say your husband and his friends, they’re not the people we thought they were.”

Tiffany Krieger coughed out a laugh. “That’s a familiar refrain. R. J. comes across like a Texan gent, sweet as molasses, but Christ, deep down, that man is cold. Cold and hard.” She helped herself to another generous portion of whiskey. I got the impression that she and booze were no strangers to each other. The evidence was there in her puffy cheeks, her bruised-looking eyes. “I don’t know much about how the man does business, but if it’s anything like the way he does other stuff, it’s brisk, efficient, over quickly, and he gets out of it whatever he can get out of it and screw anyone else. How else do you become a billionaire? Not by playing nice and fair, that’s for damn sure.” Her face took on a certain cruel amusement. “So he and his pals have fucked you over?”

“Kind of,” I said. “Pretty much.”

“Ha! Well then, more fool you.”

There was a crash from within the house.

“That your friends? Hope it was just them busting in through a window or door. We’ve got some priceless pieces of sculpture lying around. I collect. Hate to think somebody bumped into one of the Brancusis or the Modigliani and knocked it off its pedestal. The Hirst skull, on the other hand, that I don’t care about so much. It was only an investment. Wouldn’t object to the insurance payout.”

Moments later Rama and Krishna emerged from the French windows overlooking the poolside, soon followed by Parashurama and Kalkin. The Horseman was still plagued by the injuries he’d received at the Golden Rocks Mine installation, his arm and leg both stiff, but he was doing his best not to show it. Bushido bravado.

“Nobody in,” said the Warrior, disappointed.

“Except me,” said Mrs Krieger. “You’re the boss of the outfit, right, big guy?”

“I guess so.”

“Then you explain to me why you’ve come barging uninvited into my home. And make it good.”

“We’re looking for the Trinity,” Parashurama said.

“I get that, but what makes you think they’d be here? R. J.’s hardly ever around. He’s always off somewhere, wheeler-dealering, checking on his minions, making his millions. I get to see him once a month, if I’m lucky. Lately it’s been less than that. Most of the time I have the house to myself. Can’t say I mind too much. He’s not what you’d call an attentive husband, but as long as the housekeeping account’s topped up and my credit card bills get paid off, who’s complaining? And as for the conjugal relations side of things... Well, Ramon the pool boy does more than backwash the filtration system, if you get my meaning. Or is that too much information?”

She giggled and slugged down yet more bourbon. Now that she knew her life was no longer in danger, Mrs Krieger was enjoying being the centre of the attention, surrounded by all these men, and her with only a bathing towel to preserve her modesty. The booze was lowering her inhibitions, too, and making her talkative. I glimpsed a vivacious girl beneath the brittle woman, someone with brains who had lived an interesting and fairly racy life before settling down to become a trophy wife.

“Do you have any idea where your husband might be?” Rama asked.

“You people really are in a pickle, aren’t you, Frenchie? Chasing after him. Can’t find him. Why should I help you? Even if I knew anything, which I don’t. Seems like you’re out for blood. Why am I going to sell out R. J. if you’re only going to kill him?” She pouted winsomely, like Marilyn Monroe doing her little-girl routine. “My own darling hubby-kins. My sweet Southern sugar daddy. I’m not that kinda gal.”

“Your ‘hubby-kins’ is a lunatic who’s used us, lied to us and did his level best to murder us,” said Kalkin.

“That does sound like R. J.”

“He’s also key to saving the world, we believe,” said Parashurama.

“Really?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ooh, ‘ma’am.’ I like that. Tell me more.”

Parashurama outlined our plan to use the Trinity as a lever to shift India and Pakistan away from war. Mrs Krieger listened intently. Her eyes were glassy and pink and she was swaying a little as the alcohol worked its way into her system.

“Well, shit,” she said. “So that’s how the land lies, huh? The Trinity are the black hats and you’re the sheriff’s posse going to bring them in and save the good folk of Dodge. Puts me in kind of an awkward situation, as you can imagine. On the one hand, a wife doesn’t rat on her husband. On the other hand, when your husband’s clearly a rat, is it ratting? Doesn’t the one cancel out the other? Oh, the dilemma.”

We waited. Mrs Krieger’s mind was already halfway made up.

“What the hell. I’ve got a solid gold pre-nup. If he wants a divorce after this, he’ll pay through the ass. And he is, no doubt, a bastard. I love him the way you love a shark: you’ve got to admire the way he moves through the water and the other fish clear a path, but you know damn well he’s going to take a chunk out of you if you’re not careful. I lied just now.” She looked at Narasimha, then at me. “When the Lion King and Monkey Business were holding me prisoner. Sorry, fellas. I said I was alone. What I didn’t say is that I
wasn’t
alone earlier today. R. J. dropped by this morning. Literally just called in on his way from LAX, grabbed some things, left again. Came and went so fast, we barely spoke. He told me him and his buddies – Dick and Vignesh – they’d be travelling for a while. I wasn’t to try contacting him. He’d be off the grid. Work to do, places to go, people to see. Quick peck on the cheek and he was away again. Limo out front. Bodyguards. Gone in a cloud of dust.”

“That didn’t strike you as suspicious?” said Parashurama.

“What are you, a cop? There’s no ‘suspicious’ where R. J. Krieger is concerned, pal. He does what he pleases. If he’s staying on the down low, he has his reasons. Could be he’s running scared, what with the Dashavatara hot on his tail.”

“As far as he knows, we’re dead.”

“Is that so? Maybe he thinks otherwise. R. J. is many things, but dumb isn’t one of them. You don’t get to be a master of the universe without smarts and guile. If he thinks there’s even a chance you people are still alive, then of course he’s going to take precautions, go to ground if he has to.”

“You said he ‘grabbed some things,’” said Kalkin. “What sort of things?”

“Just stuff. A suitcase, some fresh clothing. R. J.’s careful about his appearance, you’ve got to have noticed that. Dapper. I guess, since he was passing close to home, he didn’t see the harm in taking a couple of minutes out of his schedule to stop in and raid his wardrobe, get a few clean shirts, et cetera. Underwear. Deck shoes. Also, say hi and goodbye to the little lady. He’s a bastard but he’s a courteous bastard. His mommy taught him manners.”

“So the Trinity are flying off again,” said Parashurama. “Probably airborne already. They’ve got a head start and this time we can’t even guess where they’re going. Could be anywhere.”

“We’re buggered,” I said.

Vamana appeared, clambering up over the cliff edge with Matsya riding pillion on his back.

“Got bored of waiting for the signal,” the Dwarf said, depositing the Fish-man on the lawn. “What’s up? I’m guessing, from the looks of things, the Trinity are a no-show.”

Parashurama brought the two of them up to speed.

“She knows more than she’s letting on,” Vamana said, pointing a finger the size of a loaf of bread at Mrs Krieger.

“Keep those jumbo hands to yourself, buster,” she retorted. “You don’t intimidate me. I’ve come clean, told you everything I can. The only thing I haven’t mentioned is the
Makara
.”

“The what?”

“It’s Vignesh’s big-ass yacht. Moored at Marina Del Rey. Hell, don’t any of you know anything? Vignesh has been keeping it there for the past four years. Now, the three of them might be on Dick’s plane, but they can get around just as well by boat. Not as fast, but a darn sight less cramped and more luxurious. The
Makara
.
²
You should see the thing. She’s about a hundred feet tall, got two swimming pools, Jacuzzi, more cabins than I can count, couple of motor launches. Best of all, she’s lower-profile than a corporate jet.”

“How so?” I said. “A floating gin palace like you’ve just described, it’s not exactly a subtle mode of transport.”

“Yes, but – the Trinity are laying low, yeah? But they still want to do deals, meet clients and so forth. The
Makara
’s got a helipad, so guests can fly in and out. It’s also got switchable privacy glass in every window and a sensor shield that sweeps the area looking for cameras, then dazzles the lenses with laser bursts. Something to do with detecting electrical charges. Paparazzi can’t take a shot of anyone on board. No guarantee of that when you’re disembarking from a plane at an airfield.”

“You’re saying this yacht is where they’ll be?” said Parashurama.

“I’m not promising it, tall, dark and handsome. What I am saying is if I were R. J., that’s what I’d do – take to the sea. A boat’s harder to pin down than an airplane. It can go anywhere, put in at any harbour, any bay, or just get lost for days in the middle of the ocean. It’s more secure. It’s more private. More comfortable.”

“You also mentioned deck shoes,” said Rama.

“I did, didn’t I? Salty seadog R. J. in his handmade blazer and canvas loafers. Frankly, if I were y’all, I’d go to Del Rey and check Vignesh’s landing slip. If the
Makara
isn’t there, that’s your answer.”

She drained her glass.

“I’m no crazy lady,” Tiffany Krieger said. “I don’t want to see the world blown up any more than the next guy. If you think R. J. and friends are the solution to the crisis, then go get ’em. Please don’t hurt R. J. if you can avoid it – I’m still enough of a loyal wife to ask for that – but at the same time, I wish you luck. Be stupid not to. You’re weirdos and a bit messed up, but your hearts are in the right place. We have that in common.”

¹
It’s where they filmed the closing scenes of
Planet Of The Apes
. “Goddamn you all to hell!” etc.

²
Named after a sea leviathan in Hindu mythology.

46. THE HUNT FOR THE MAKARA

B
Y MID-AFTERNOON WE
had established that Bhatnagar’s five-hundred-foot, half-billion-dollar giga-yacht had put out from Del Rey Landing in Santa Monica shortly after ten AM. The
Makara
’s four diesel engines together yielded 95,000 horsepower, allowing her to achieve a top speed of thirty knots, around thirty-five miles per hour. She could be anything up to a hundred miles away by now, either far out in the Pacific or hugging the coastline.

It was a vast search area, a semicircle of roughly fifteen thousand square miles, and getting larger by the minute. All we could do was begin scouring it and hope for the best.

To increase our chances of success, Matsya took to the ocean, equipped with a waterproof, ruggedized mobile phone bought from an army surplus store. Swimming at top speed, he used the phone’s GPS to help him make a systematic sweep of the southern sector of the search area. The
Garuda
, meanwhile, quartered the northern sector, flying low enough that the
Makara
’s profile would show up on radar. Eagle-eyed Rama kept lookout in the cockpit beside Captain Corday.

It was a damn big boat, but then fifteen thousand square miles was a damn big amount of sea to hide in.

To our advantage, Matsya’s hearing was perfectly adapted to a subaquatic environment. He could detect whalesong, the echolocation clicks of dolphins, all the low-frequency noises that travelled far through water – including boat propellers. He had a lobe in his brain that was sensitive to sound in the 100+ megahertz range. So whenever he picked up the rumble of screws churning and the cavitation of air bubbles, he would veer off in that direction to investigate.

In the
Garuda
’s cabin, the divide of suspicion remained – Aanandi and I at one end, the Avatars at the other.