FIC: Dr. Harkness & Nurse Jones, India (Part II)
Title: Dr. Harkness & Nurse Jones, India (Part II)
Author: blue_fjords
Characters/Pairings: Jack, Ianto, Tosh, Donna, Martha, John Smith, Master Harold Saxon, Lucy Saxon, Jack/Ianto, Tosh/Donna
Rating: PG-13 this part, NC-17 overall
Word Length: 6,500 this part; 22,700 overall
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Well. It's been a long time coming. This is a continuation of my romance novel AU, which started here with Dr. Harkness & Nurse Jones: Kenya back in December of 2008 (yikes!) and continued with Dr. Harkness & Nurse Jones: Ghana, until we got to Dr. Harkness & Nurse Jones: India (Prologue - Ghana) in November of 2009. I am a slow writer, what can I say! Due to my slowness, you will find the character of John Smith is probably nothing like Eleven, as I created him long before Eleven was even cast, poor chap. So he's pretty much an OC, with shades of different Doctors. And, well, human, as this is an AU. Everybody's human! Many, many thanks to adjovi for the beta, and to my peeps for putting up w/ me complaining about writer's block etc. during the writing of this thing. Also, I have never been to India. Google goes there frequently, though. Finally, this story has an epilogue, but it does not end on a cliffhanger. There are a few loose ends I want to tie up (Donna! Gwen & Rhys! Boating!), hopefully in the upcoming week. Thanks for your patience.
Part II
Ianto leaned across the counter and hit the bell. He’d been traveling eighteen hours, he was hot, sweaty and thirsty, his leg throbbed abominably, and to top it off, Jack had not met him at the airport. He hadn’t been expecting him to, really, but he had hoped. He had news from Gwen that he was simply dying to share with Jack in person, plus he simply missed the man’s presence. Instead he’d been accosted by a dozen different drivers, all guaranteeing the best ride in India, before getting charged an exorbitant amount for a cab sans air conditioning and to top it off, he had no one to share in his first experience of India. Kochi was beautiful, a mixture of English and Dutch colonial buildings, and more traditional Indian architecture, with enough breeze off the water that, if the cab’s windows had gone down farther, would have been quite nice. The smells of cooking, so much richer than the curry shops back in Cardiff, made his mouth water and his stomach growl, but his desire to make it to the hotel and back to Jack outweighed anything else.
He hit the bell a second time, perhaps a mite hard.
“Lovely day, wouldn’t you say?”
Ianto sighed, fixed on his common courtesy smile, and turned to face the speaker. He was younger and shorter than Ianto, but with the same pasty complexion born of too many summers on the British Isles.
“Just arrived. Trying to adjust to the new climate,” he said with a vague wave of his hand.
“Welsh lad, are you? I have an interest in accents! Have you noticed,” the stranger leaned a little too close into Ianto’s personal space, “the Arabic influence on Malayalam? I know what you’re thinking! Rather obvious, since this is a coastal town and Arabic traders would, of course, make use of the port here. The same goes for Portuguese. Because of the port, ha!”
He laughed delightedly, and Ianto politely joined in. The concierge was still missing, and Ianto glanced surreptitiously around the lobby to see if anyone was wearing a uniform or looked the least bit helpful.
“But I think my favorite part of the whole thing, really,” the stranger continued, “is the meaning of the word. Malayalam - mountain ocean. How exquisitely succinct!”
Ianto made a noncommittal noise and slammed the bell for a third time.
“Oh, I don’t think anyone’s around at the moment, dear chap - someone made a bit of a mess in the courtyard with a basket of bananas and a bicycle - ahem,” he stuck a finger under his collar and tugged sheepishly. “And of course, some say it means ‘mountain place’ - but that’s not nearly as perfect, wouldn’t you say?”
He finally paused for breath, and Ianto jumped right in. “Well, it’s been nice to meet you, but if they’re all in the courtyard, I should probably…” and he gestured out the door.
“Have a cuppa while waiting? Excellent plan, excellent,” the stranger draped his arm around Ianto’s shoulders. “Come, Ianto, we’ll go to my room and wait; I have loads of tea, of course -”
“I don’t want any tea!” Ianto exclaimed, and then dug his heels in as the other man’s words sunk in. “Wait a moment. How do you know my name?”
The shorter man blinked up at him. “Jack asked me to look for you. Didn’t I mention that?”
Ianto closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “No you did not mention that,” he said. He was quite proud that his voice did not shake with anger. At least, not much.
“Oh. Well. He was quite sure that we would be fast friends.” His mouth quirked into a smile. “So…well met?”
“We haven’t actually met, as you haven’t told me your name,” Ianto said. Calmly. “And where is Jack right now? Shouldn’t he be making the introductions?”
“Oh, Jack is … elsewhere; I can fill you in,” the man said with a wave of his hand. “I’m John Smith, the eleventh of that name. Here’s my card,” Smith flexed his fingers, then with a theatrical snap, he placed an ivory-colored business card in Ianto’s sweaty palm.
Smithsons’
Import & Export
We Move Time and Space for You
Ianto flipped it over. “There’s no phone number,” he said, looking back up at Smith.
“Really? Must be defective,” Smith responded cheerfully. He gave Ianto an oddly hopeful smile. Ianto sighed heavily. Bloody Jack and his bloody adventures. “Fine, then Mr. Smith. Let’s go up to your room and you can tell me about why the hell Jack’s not here.”
***
Ianto leaned against the window sill and sighed. What have you gotten yourself mixed up in now, Jack? He tried to tamp down on the sliver of worry that was worming its way into his heart. He glanced over his shoulder. Smith was at the kitchenette’s little table, a newspaper spread out before him. Ianto didn’t recognize the language, but Smith appeared to be reading and humming to himself. As Ianto watched, Smith pulled a magnifying glass out of an inner pocket in his suit and began to examine the paper. It was an ad for a sari shop, Ianto could tell that much, though Smith seemed to find something fascinating in the black and white photo of bolts of cloth. With a hitch of his shoulders, Ianto turned back to the view out the window.
Jack, Tosh and Donna had gone out two days before to review potential property for a clinic. They had then left the property and gone to a plantation belonging to some rich developer - a potential donor. They had never returned, and had not called. Ianto clenched his fists to keep them from shaking.
“Let me get this straight, Smith - they arrived safely at this Rahul’s property in the morning? And left around 4:00 in the afternoon?” he asked.
Smith jerked up from his newspaper. He’d been bent nearly in half, magnifying glass cutting into the skin around his eye. “What? Oh, precisely that,” he agreed.
“Tell me again what they said at Saxon’s place? Jack didn’t call; you called them?”
“Ah, well, not exactly.” Ianto raised a brow and Smith hurriedly continued. “You see, you, or ‘members of the Tyler Foundation’ to be precise, received a message at the front desk here, that the three of them were going to stay for a few days, and not to worry, and they’d talk to you later.”
Ianto blinked at him. “You stole my message?”
“Well, technically I eavesdropped.”
“You eavesdropped on a perfectly innocent message, and worried me needlessly - ” Ianto stopped in mid-thought. It was a perfectly innocent message. It sounded not a whit like Jack. And Jack would have called him directly and left a message. And Jack would have asked Ianto to join them. Despite the tenseness of their last few weeks in Ghana, Ianto firmly believed that. “All right,” he continued after a pause. “It’s a weird message. Jack would not have left a message like that.”
“That’s what I thought!” Smith nodded enthusiastically.
“What do you know about this Saxon?”
“Absolutely nothing!”
“Wonderful,” Ianto muttered under his breath. “Is there an internet café or somesuch place around here?”
***
Ianto eyed the last piece of naan. Smith was in the midst of a game of Scrabble in what looked like a Scandinavian language at the terminal next to him, waiting while a program finished running. As Ianto watched, Smith carefully selected ‘reisen’ for his next word, and leaned close to the monitor. Six whole points. Ianto shook his head, grabbed the naan and looked back to his own computer.
They’d been at the internet café for three hours now. Thus far, Ianto had determined that no one from the Tyler Foundation had heard from either Jack, Tosh or Donna by phone. Tosh’s office in Mumbai, their main office for Asia, had received an email nearly identical to the message left for Ianto at the hotel, ostensibly sent from Tosh. It didn’t sound like her, either. There were no personal flourishes in the messages to make them look like they had been written by Jack or Tosh, and nothing to indicate that they would be received by their lover or their colleagues.
Finding information on Harold Saxon was turning into a bit of a bear, too. There was nothing on him until 2007, and then a flurry of news articles and mentions in gossip columns chronicling the life styles of the fabulously rich. Saxon was a technology manufacturer, a shipping magnate, an amateur golf enthusiast, a philanthropist (though Ianto did not recognize the names of any of the charities that listed him as a donor), and an occasional poker buddy of an English actor who starred in several films Ianto had never seen. There were a couple of articles teasing some new software development that would ‘revolutionize worldwide communication’ (Heard that one before.), but his only connection to India was a short piece on his dedication to environmental conservation on the coast of India.
Ianto swallowed the last of the naan and rubbed at the back of his neck. If Jack were here, he’d be able to talk him into a massage. Jack had such warm, large hands, and though Ianto shied away from touching in public, he’d give anything to feel them on his neck and shoulders right now. Jack’s thumb along his shoulder blade, Jack’s fingers pressing hard against the knots along his spine and then rubbing the tension away, Jack’s breath hot against his neck before he gave into the temptation and applied his lips to Ianto’s neck in a series of slurping kisses. Jack stepping closer, sliding his hands around to the front, up under Ianto’s shirt to splay across Ianto’s belly, rubbing circles into the thin layer of soft flesh covering Ianto’s muscles. Jack’s other hand, moving down, unzipping trousers and dipping into pants. Maybe he’d be gentle and slowly stroke Ianto to hardness, fingers tickling along the throbbing vein, softly squeezing until all thought left Ianto’s head. Or maybe he’d be fast and rough and grip hard as his kisses turned to bites and his desperation to see Ianto completely undone played out in the slide and glide of strong fingers stroking a punishing rhythm until Ianto gasped his release.
Ianto jerked awake in his hard plastic chair. He looked around, flushing. Smith was the only other person in their corner of the café, and he was clearly engrossed in his Scrabble. Ianto glanced surreptitiously down at his trousers. No wet spots, thank God. His computer dinged at him for a gchat, and he leaned forward.
RED_LEATHER: ianto! safe in india? how’s jack?
COFFEE_JONES: jack’s not around at the moment. india is hot. how are you?
RED_LEATHER: diverted to mumbai airport - supposed to be going to south africa! i can’t believe we’re in the same country and going to miss each other!
COFFEE_JONES: still, south africa - sounds like fun.
you’ve worked in india before, though, right?
remember a bloke named harold saxon at all?
RED_LEATHER: you’re kidding, yeah? stay away from him!
COFFEE_JONES: what? why?
RED_LEATHER: megalomaniacal freak, he is.
COFFEE_JONES: jack, tosh and donna are there - they didn’t come back from his farm!
RED_LEATHER: the man’s an unmitigated ass. you should
[CONNECTION TERMINATED. CONNECTION TERMINATED. CONNECTION TERMINATED…]
Ianto stared at the screen. What was Martha going to suggest? What was the problem with Harold Saxon? Next to him, Smith was knocking at his monitor with his fist.
“Look at that, Jonesy, I lost my game! And that, you know, program.” He winked.
“It doesn’t matter about your game, Smith! Can we extend our time at all?” Ianto craned his neck around to the front desk. The old man who’d given them leave to use the computers for a fee was currently cowering before two large men in some kind of uniform. They made the hair on the back of Ianto’s neck stand up. Then one of the men pulled a small folder out of an inner pocket, and Ianto’s jaw dropped. The Tyler Foundation logo was easily recognizable, even from this distance. Better to be safe than sorry. “Never mind, is there a back way out?”
Smith blinked at him. “Of course there’s a back way! Why are we going out the back way?”
Ianto grabbed his notes and hauled Smith up into a crouch. A long wooden bar shielded them from view from the front desk, but any second now the men in uniform would be back there with them. “It’s an adventure, Smith. You strike me as an adventurous fellow! Now lead the way out back.”
Smith got an excited look on his face, laid a finger to his lips, and led Ianto along the wall and through the swinging door to the kitchen area. A skinny boy of about sixteen looked up from the stove as they crept past. Ianto tried to give a reassuring smile, but he felt like an utter prat. The boy’s eyes followed them as Smith shoved open the back door and they tumbled into the evening air.
“We can even take an alley back to the hotel,” Smith said in a piercing whisper. “Come on!”
Ianto let him have the lead as he followed him into deepening gloom cast by overlapping awnings and clothing lines stretching across the alley. He glanced behind him at the café’s back door a couple of times, but no men in uniform or kitchen boys appeared, and soon they were back on a main road. The sounds of Kochi, the call to prayer from a mosque, wooden rickshaw wheels slapping cobbled stones and hard-packed earth, women calling to each other from market stalls, the distant barks of dogs, all settled like a mantle with the bright noonday sun around their shoulders, swallowing them up and hiding them from prying eyes. They reached the hotel ten minutes later.
Ianto sat heavily on one of the beds in Smith’s room. “Those men,” he began, “how much do you want to bet they did not just randomly appear at the café? We’d been researching Saxon for an hour or so. Do you think … could he have known? I can’t think of any other reason.”
Smith shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not much of one for technology. But I suppose if he has access to some kind of satellite, he could possibly put a trace on searches for his name.”
Ianto frowned. “I bet Dr. Sato - Tosh - would be able to say so. At any rate,” Ianto stood up abruptly as a thought occurred to him, “we should switch hotels. Just to be safe.”
Smith gaped at him. “But this place has the best little courtyard! And fresh fruit.”
“We’re not going to be able to enjoy those things anyhow, Smith. Not with Saxon possibly on our tail. If you want to stay here, I don’t blame you. But I’m moving the Tyler Foundation staff out of here.”
Smith shook his head. “No, no, that sounds exciting. I’ll move too! In fact, I have a buddy, big wart on the side of his nose - don’t mention it when you see him; he’s quite sensitive about it, you know - and his brother-in-law owns a shop next to this lovely little hotel! I’ll see about getting up rooms, and a car to transfer our stuff. Don’t you worry about a thing; one hour, it will be all set up!”
Ianto hesitated. “Okay. I’ll shower while we wait, then.”
The shower was hot and had perfect water pressure. Ianto regretted the necessity of leaving the hotel, but it couldn’t be helped. If those men worked for Saxon, then who knew if they were there for an internet Saxon search, or if they were to collect all members of the Tyler Foundation in Kochi. But why? To what end? He hated leaping to conclusions. He needed more FACTS.
When he got out of the shower, Smith was gone, presumably to see about new lodgings. Ianto stretched out on the bed for a moment. He opened his eyes two hours later. Shit. He sat up quickly and got a headrush.
The door opened, and Smith pushed in a partially full luggage cart. “Oh, good, you’re awake! I took the liberty of packing up Dr. Sato and Ms. Noble’s room. I use the same shampoo as one of them!”
“That’s great,” Ianto said, blinking to get Smith in focus. “I’ll get Jack’s stuff together. Except, wait, I just remembered, I never got my key to that room.”
“No need to worry!” Smith reached into his pocket and pulled out a strange gadget. It looked like a cross between nose hair tweezers, a screwdriver and a child’s light-up microphone toy. “I can get it open with my latest invention, lickity split!”
Much to Ianto’s astonishment, Smith did have it open very quickly. He moved through the room, gathering up toiletries and a few dirty socks. Jack packed lightly, or rather, Ianto had helped him pack lightly. He ran his fingers over a couple of the ugly t-shirts Jack had insisted on bringing. He could vividly recall their last night together after zipping up this same duffel: the taste of Jack on his tongue, the slide of Jack’s skin against his own and his heavy breathing in Ianto’s ear. The way Jack said his name when Ianto was buried in his body. He swallowed, and pulled his hand back. “Room’s all set,” he said gruffly, throwing the duffel over his shoulder and preceding Smith out into the corridor.
They helped their driver load up the car and headed across town to Smith’s alternate hotel. It was every bit as nice as the one they had just left, to Ianto’s relief, and was located on the edge of a popular market area. They walked several streets over to a restaurant Smith also knew to get some dinner. In all of the excitement of the day, Ianto had forgotten how hungry he was. His worry over Jack warred with his empty gut, combining to cause him to demolish several dishes very quickly and regret it.
Smith regaled him with a story about studying animal behavior out in the field (the field being a meadow in Cambridge) as they made their way back to the hotel. Ianto nodded absently before the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up - again. We’re being watched. He could see the outline of a couple of men, possibly the same from the internet café, in a shop window and cursed under his breath.
Smith let out a delighted cackle and tugged on Ianto’s arm. “Look, Jonesy,” he hissed in a loud whisper, “they’re moving in packs, hunting at dusk, just like wolves!”
Ianto sped up and pushed Smith in front of him. “Which makes us the prey,” he muttered. His eyes darted to the left and caught a glimpse of their pursuers reflected back to him in a copper pot. He counted five, and swallowed a rising tide of panic. All around them, merchants were shuttering their stalls and shops for the evening. The market area was slowly emptying.
They’ll break you; they’ll break you for good this time; you won’t be able to walk away; you’ll fail; you’ll be a broken thing of no use to anyone. And Jack will suffer for it. His mind was gibbering uncontrollably, and he reached out a hand to grip Smith’s bicep in an effort to steady himself.
“I’m thinking about doing a study of pack mentality in hunting species,” Smith whispered. “This will make for a fascinating chapter!”
“So you’re an anthropologist now, along with a shipping magnate, amateur hibachi chef, master magician and male model?” Ianto asked. If he talked, he couldn’t hear himself think.
“I prefer fashion icon,” Smith replied, with great dignity. Ianto huffed, and picked up the pace again. A large group of men ambled out in front of them, and he steered them over to join in at the back. A quick glance behind revealed their pursuers growing closer. The voice in his head began to shriek and his hand tightened painfully around Smith’s arm.
“I didn’t know you were Muslim!” Smith exclaimed loudly. Ianto stared back at him, uncomprehending. Several of the men in the group they’d joined raised their eyebrows at him, and Ianto blushed.
“What are you going on about now, Smith?” he asked, tugging them along.
“Well we’re going into the mosque at prayer time. If not for prayers, then what?”
Ianto blinked. They were indeed following the men into a mosque. Behind them, their pursuers hovered, uncertain. Smith passed decisively into the courtyard before the entrance, Ianto still gripping his arm.
There were no other Westerners around, but Smith grinned confidently at one of the men. “My friend here is a Muslim. Allah inshallah Allah.”
The man stared back at them like they had three heads, and Ianto couldn’t fault them. If Smith was going to attempt a little Arabic, why not stick with a greeting like ‘Salaam’ instead of … whatever he’d been trying to say. Ianto gave a flimsy smile and nod, and looked around. Everyone was taking their shoes off, and he knelt, pulling Smith down with him.
“We’ll stay in the courtyard around the sides, and sneak out a different way,” he whispered. “No, no, don’t leave your shoes here!”
Smith looked confused, but he rose and followed Ianto, carrying their shoes, around the outside of the mosque itself. Ianto peeked through a tall doorway. The inside of the mosque was open and airy, pillars on the side supporting a high dome in the middle. The men were gathered in the center, and knelt as one.
“Aren’t we going to pray?” Smith hissed. Softly, this time, thankfully.
“Um, they’re praying for us today,” Ianto whispered back. He spied a door in the outer wall, and looked back, hesitating. The worshippers were all repeating the same prayer out loud. Let there be no one on the other side of this door, he added silently. As everyone else leaned forward and pressed their forehead to the floor, he turned the handle, and the two of them stumbled out into a twilit alley. It was clear.
“Come on, Smith,” Ianto said, stuffing his feet back into his shoes. Smith stood there, trainers dangling from his fingertips, and frowned back at the plaza.
“That shouldn’t have worked! They should have circled the building; there’s only so many exits we could use,” he said indignantly. “The quality of thug Saxon uses does not speak highly of him,” he muttered, finally turning to his trainers.
“Personally, I’ll take the unimaginative thugs over the clever ones,” Ianto replied. “I think we’re about six streets over from the end of our road. . .” Ianto’s voice trailed off. Two of their pursuers had appeared at the alley mouth. His heart rate increased sharply. Flight, flight, flight!
“Back this way, hurry!” He chivvied Smith along, following the curve of the mosque in the opposite direction. Smith squeaked his assent and they abandoned all pretense of stealth for speed. They rounded the curve directly into two more thugs. Ianto’s heart abruptly froze. The lead thug swung his fist at Smith’s head, and Smith stepped directly into it, the fist flying harmlessly over his shoulder. Ianto had not a moment to gape at him as the second thug was on him. For each blow he managed to deflect, another landed on his shoulder, his stomach, forcing him back, away from Smith. Smith’s attacker finally got a grip on the man, and the next moment, Smith was flailing through the air with a startled yell, before hitting the wall and collapsing in a groaning heap. A trickle of blood ran down his chin.
The sight enraged Ianto. His inner eye flashed on the image of Jack, bleeding into the dust of their courtyard in Kenya, and his left leg gave a sympathetic twinge. He let out his fear in a wordless roar, answered in the distance by the roar of a motorbike, and channeled all of his anger and pain into his attack. He wrestled his own thug up against the mosque wall and slammed the man’s head against it once, twice, three times. Smith’s attacker came to his thug’s aid, and Ianto blocked his fist, ramming his straight arm into the man’s tender throat. He went down choking, and Ianto slammed the first man’s head into the mosque wall once more. The man slid bonelessly to the ground.
Ianto whirled around as the original two pursuers rounded the curve. A fifth man appeared from the other direction. Ianto flexed his fingers. One or two, one or two? He growled low in his throat, and was answered again by the roar of a motorbike, drawing closer. All three men rushed him, and he fought furiously for the next few moments, kicking and punching. A year of pent-up rage lent him strength, and one of the men hit the ground and did not rise up again. The other two pulled away, catching their breaths, attempting to circle him. Ianto turned with them. He would not be taken from behind again, beaten and discarded without the chance to fight back.
One of the men yelled over his shoulder, and Ianto swore under his breath as five more men came running up the alley to join them. Pack hunting, indeed. They were going to die here, behind a mosque in Kochi, and he would never see Jack again, never wake up to blue eyes smiling at him, never hear that laugh again. His fists and jaw clenched, and the motorbike roared directly behind him.
His attackers drew back uncertainly. Ianto risked a glance at the motorbike, and blinked in shock. Martha Jones, Martha Jones in red leather! gripped the handle with one hand and pointed a sawed-off shotgun at his attackers with the other. The militant pose was only spoiled somewhat by the sidecar attached to the motorbike.
“Get in!” she barked at him, and Ianto rushed to Smith, helping him into the sidecar. Ianto slid behind Martha on the motorbike, and the men surged forward. She waved the gun at them, and they backed off. “Hold this,” she commanded, handing Ianto the gun. He hid his surprise on taking it. It was a water pistol, a posh one made up to look like a weapon from a Guy Ritchie film. He thought he might have seen them for sale in the market, one of the times he’d been running through the stalls. Martha revved the engine, Ianto pointed the gun, and then they were turning. The thugs rushed forward as one, but only one reached the motorbike. Ianto rammed the butt of the water pistol in the man’s face, and then they were free, out of the alley and zooming across the plaza. Ianto tightened his arm around Martha’s waist.
Smith began to chuckle as they picked up speed, transferring to roads with more people heading out for the nightlife. Ianto glanced down at him, startled. Maybe he had hit his head harder than he thought. Smith wiped at the blood on his chin. “I was just thinking about my study on pack hunting, and how I would have to put something in there of the mother defending her young,” he said, reaching up to pat Martha’s calf.
It wasn’t funny, really, but Ianto laughed, too, the tension and adrenaline draining out of him to leave him weakly clutching at Martha as she shook her head at them both.
“Hold on, you daft lot,” she murmured. “We’re almost back to the den.”
***
Ianto woke up the next morning feeling unrested and sandy-eyed. Smith had snored the entire night, after they had spent several hours going over what they learned online with Martha and comparing those notes with her own recollections of Saxon. Ianto still couldn’t believe that Martha had just hopped the next flight when she heard of the trouble, but he was incredibly grateful. And even more nervous about Saxon’s plans for Jack. He trusted Martha to watch his back in a fight. Smith was still a bit of a puzzle. Ianto wasn’t sure how much weight to lend to Smith’s interjected anecdotes (Just how many murder mystery dinner parties could one man attend? And the list of his former jobs - sculptor, wedding planner, Shakespearean scholar, among many others - just went on and on.), but they were a good distraction from Ianto’s near-crushing worry. He yawned and looked across the aisle at Smith’s snoring form. He’d been planning to wake up in Jack’s arms - Jack who seldom snored - after a night of rigorous sex. Instead he’d given his room to Martha and bunked down with Smith. He sighed and got out of bed. A shower would go a long way towards preparing him for the day.
Smith had ordered up some breakfast (porridge) by the time Ianto got out of the shower. After hastily cleaning their bowls, they left the hotel, headed to a municipal building Smith said would hold records on Saxon and his property, possibly even a helpful map, while Martha picked up a rental car and various supplies to get them to Saxon’s estate, as her motorcycle wouldn’t be able to transport their three friends, too.
They were greeted by a tiny older man at the Hall of Records. He led Ianto and Smith to his own office and gave them a thin folder. Ianto perused the contents while Smith carried on a conversation with their host in an attempt to get additional, less official information. Ianto glanced over the information on Saxon’s manufacturing plants and concentrated on the permit for his land in the state of Kerala. It was officially listed as a nature reserve and stretched from the sea to several kilometers inland. Ianto frowned at the paper. Saxon was also authorized to build a small dock for his own boats. There was a restriction on the size of the boats, but Ianto could easily imagine how easy it would be to smuggle something from a small boat out to a larger ship in the waters off the coast. There’d recently been a rash of piracy in that area of the Arabian Sea, led mainly by Somali pirates. But if they were already pirating, who’s to say they were not also smuggling? But smuggling what? And how did Jack, Tosh and Donna get mixed up in it?
Ianto’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud squawk from Smith. The old man was standing and gesturing wildly towards the door. Suppressing a sigh, Ianto rose to his feet, took the arguing Smith by his elbow and pulled him out into the hall. The old man’s yells followed them through the Hall.
“What on earth did you say to him?” Ianto asked as the door closed behind them.
“What did I say to him?” Smith wrenched his elbow away and smoothed down his suit jacket. “Indeed! The man claims to have a hobby of tinkering with all sorts of mechanical gadgets, but does he have the slightest modicum of respect for my all-in-one screwdriver? No! No he doesn’t!”
Ianto rolled his eyes. “And Saxon? I don’t suppose you mentioned him at all?”
“Hmmm? Oh. Yes. Saxon is an odd duck. He’s hired an entire security force to monitor his so-called nature reserve,” Smith said as they made their way back onto one of Kochi’s main avenues, “and guess how many scientists? Or conservationists or anything animal-related?”
“I’m going to go with zero,” Ianto said, dodging around a gaggle of children.
“Right in one,” Smith replied, flattening against the side of a building as a too-large truck came rattling by them.
“We need to get up there and see it for ourselves.” Ianto eyed Smith warily. “How are you at stealth in the, ah, field?”
“Jonesy! I am a master of disguise, anytime, anywhere!”
“Hrm. Well. Let’s see if Martha has the vehicle and supplies. I want to head up there as quickly as possible.”
***
They left Kochi an hour later. Ianto insisted they follow the same exact route Jack and the others should have taken, just in case they had not, in fact, made it to Saxon’s estate. Soon after passing Rahul’s property, they came across a jeep with a flat tire on the side of the road. Ianto stopped the car and they all got out to survey it. Ianto knelt down in the dust and inspected the tire. It looked to be a legitimate flat tire, at least. He sighed and laid a hand on the bumper. He missed Jack with a physical ache. The past month had been so hard on them as a couple, and he’d put so much faith in this trip to help heal that. A reconnection, in a new place, with none of the same worries, where they could just focus on each other. He craved it: waking up in Jack’s arms, no one interrupting them, the past staying safely where it belonged - in the past. Maybe they should get a boat and sail around for a bit. No one else on the ocean, surely. Of course, he knew nothing about boats, but that was a minor hurdle. He smiled sadly to himself. He bet Jack knew about boats.
Martha poked her head out of the jeep. “Oi. I found a granola bar. Looks like they took the spare water and their maps and papers and things with them.”
“I bet Jack’s missing that granola bar,” Ianto said. “The tire was punctured by a sharp rock. Totally natural.”
“Then they must have continued on foot from here,” Martha said. “What do you think? Should we drive, or go by foot ourselves?”
Ianto chewed his lower lip. “Let’s drive until we get to a better turn-off where we can hide the car,” he decided.
“Good idea!” Smith agreed. “I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”
Martha grinned. “Well, you can be in charge of the design, how’s that?”
They only drove for about ten more minutes before the road grew too narrow to navigate. Smith leaned through the gap in the front seat and pointed out a tiny space between trees on the right side of the road. Martha unloaded their gear as Ianto helped Smith put up a screen of greenery to hide the car. Ianto stepped back, hands on hips, and turned a critical eye on their work. He had to admit that Smith knew what he was doing. The vehicle was completely hidden. He watched, amused, as Smith bent low and gently teased up the grass their tires had flattened. Martha pulled the GPS from her pack and read out the coordinates of the car.
“Okay, then.” Ianto shrugged into his pack. “Anyone object to fighting through the underbrush?”
“No, we should definitely stay hidden,” Martha agreed.
“Oh, yes!” Smith nodded. “Say, have I ever told you about the time I infiltrated an office building? It was … nothing like this job, actually. Except for the infiltration part. See they were selling these phony weight loss supplements…”
***
Ianto hunkered down behind a tree and sipped from his water bottle. It was fairly late in the afternoon, and they had circled all around Saxon’s valley estate. Smith’s eyes had popped at the sight of all the poppies, and he’d been making Wizard of Oz references the whole day. He quieted down after the first glimpse of Saxon’s security forces. They walked the perimeter in teams of three and were heavily armed. Martha had exchanged a quick look with Ianto at their first narrow escape, sliding down a gentle slope and hiding in the damp shrubbery. They had two stun guns in their arsenal. And, Smith was quick to point out, his multi-functional screwdriver. They’d be toast in a full-on fight. Ianto wondered, not for the first time, if they should have waited for some kind of back-up, but then he thought of Jack. The odds that he was being held against his will increased each time Ianto spotted a guard, and he hardened his resolve.
“Everyone ready?” he asked softly. Martha nodded from one tree over, and Smith raised his arm and gave a thumb’s up from where he was lying amongst some bushes.
Ianto looked up the slope. They were at the far end of Saxon’s property, the sea to their right. This slope had to lead to his actual living quarters, or some sort of structure to contain Jack, Tosh and Donna. He took a deep breath and led the way at a half-crouch. The trees thinned about halfway up, so they crawled the rest of the way on their bellies and peered over the lip of the rise. Saxon’s compound was spread out in the valley below them, and beyond that, the fields of poppies they’d bypassed earlier in the day. Ianto gingerly pulled out his notebook and began to sketch the layout. To his left, Martha had her binoculars glued to her eyes as she counted out the guards and their placements. To his right, Smith flopped onto his back and stared up at the sky. “Look, Jones! An Indian Shag! Did you know they used to be called ‘sea ravens’ - not that we should take that as an omen, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Martha muttered.
“How is a raven like a writing desk?” Smith mused.
“They’re equally useless in this situation,” Ianto answered softly. “Martha? How many guards?”
“I count eight around that posh building in the middle - Saxon’s home and possibly office, I’d say. The other buildings are much more sparsely guarded. Six other guards on a rotating shift for the whole place.” She shifted up onto her elbows. “I can’t rightly tell for the fields, but I’d say, oh, a good dozen.” She lowered her binoculars and met Ianto’s eyes. “And the entire lot’s armed.”
“Brilliant,” Ianto sighed. “Okay, plan. Do we hunker down and wait for nightfall?”
“We may have to - anyone looking out a window could spot us amongst the buildings. There’s not exactly any cover, and we don’t know where to look, besides,” Martha replied.
Ianto grunted his assent, though the waiting chafed. “This is just so bizarre!” he burst out, and immediately lowered his voice. “What is Saxon playing at? He’s a communications systems manufacturer slash opium smuggler? Only Jack could get pulled into this mess.”
Martha gave him a sympathetic look. “We’ll get him back, Ianto. Tosh and Donna, too.”
“We’d better,” Ianto mumbled, “so I can tell him off.”
“Well, that’s odd,” Smith remarked, and Ianto gave a little start. He’d almost forgotten about the other man during his conversation with Martha, and if Smith thought something was odd . . .
“Dare I ask?” Ianto wondered.
“I thought I saw I saw the ginger lady,” Smith answered, and both Ianto and Martha hurriedly moved closer to him to see. Ianto couldn’t spot Donna anywhere, but something else made his heart catch in his throat.
“Hang on, now! Look at the fields - fire!” Smith exclaimed. “All those poppies!”
Continue to Part III
Author: blue_fjords
Characters/Pairings: Jack, Ianto, Tosh, Donna, Martha, John Smith, Master Harold Saxon, Lucy Saxon, Jack/Ianto, Tosh/Donna
Rating: PG-13 this part, NC-17 overall
Word Length: 6,500 this part; 22,700 overall
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Well. It's been a long time coming. This is a continuation of my romance novel AU, which started here with Dr. Harkness & Nurse Jones: Kenya back in December of 2008 (yikes!) and continued with Dr. Harkness & Nurse Jones: Ghana, until we got to Dr. Harkness & Nurse Jones: India (Prologue - Ghana) in November of 2009. I am a slow writer, what can I say! Due to my slowness, you will find the character of John Smith is probably nothing like Eleven, as I created him long before Eleven was even cast, poor chap. So he's pretty much an OC, with shades of different Doctors. And, well, human, as this is an AU. Everybody's human! Many, many thanks to adjovi for the beta, and to my peeps for putting up w/ me complaining about writer's block etc. during the writing of this thing. Also, I have never been to India. Google goes there frequently, though. Finally, this story has an epilogue, but it does not end on a cliffhanger. There are a few loose ends I want to tie up (Donna! Gwen & Rhys! Boating!), hopefully in the upcoming week. Thanks for your patience.
Part II
Ianto leaned across the counter and hit the bell. He’d been traveling eighteen hours, he was hot, sweaty and thirsty, his leg throbbed abominably, and to top it off, Jack had not met him at the airport. He hadn’t been expecting him to, really, but he had hoped. He had news from Gwen that he was simply dying to share with Jack in person, plus he simply missed the man’s presence. Instead he’d been accosted by a dozen different drivers, all guaranteeing the best ride in India, before getting charged an exorbitant amount for a cab sans air conditioning and to top it off, he had no one to share in his first experience of India. Kochi was beautiful, a mixture of English and Dutch colonial buildings, and more traditional Indian architecture, with enough breeze off the water that, if the cab’s windows had gone down farther, would have been quite nice. The smells of cooking, so much richer than the curry shops back in Cardiff, made his mouth water and his stomach growl, but his desire to make it to the hotel and back to Jack outweighed anything else.
He hit the bell a second time, perhaps a mite hard.
“Lovely day, wouldn’t you say?”
Ianto sighed, fixed on his common courtesy smile, and turned to face the speaker. He was younger and shorter than Ianto, but with the same pasty complexion born of too many summers on the British Isles.
“Just arrived. Trying to adjust to the new climate,” he said with a vague wave of his hand.
“Welsh lad, are you? I have an interest in accents! Have you noticed,” the stranger leaned a little too close into Ianto’s personal space, “the Arabic influence on Malayalam? I know what you’re thinking! Rather obvious, since this is a coastal town and Arabic traders would, of course, make use of the port here. The same goes for Portuguese. Because of the port, ha!”
He laughed delightedly, and Ianto politely joined in. The concierge was still missing, and Ianto glanced surreptitiously around the lobby to see if anyone was wearing a uniform or looked the least bit helpful.
“But I think my favorite part of the whole thing, really,” the stranger continued, “is the meaning of the word. Malayalam - mountain ocean. How exquisitely succinct!”
Ianto made a noncommittal noise and slammed the bell for a third time.
“Oh, I don’t think anyone’s around at the moment, dear chap - someone made a bit of a mess in the courtyard with a basket of bananas and a bicycle - ahem,” he stuck a finger under his collar and tugged sheepishly. “And of course, some say it means ‘mountain place’ - but that’s not nearly as perfect, wouldn’t you say?”
He finally paused for breath, and Ianto jumped right in. “Well, it’s been nice to meet you, but if they’re all in the courtyard, I should probably…” and he gestured out the door.
“Have a cuppa while waiting? Excellent plan, excellent,” the stranger draped his arm around Ianto’s shoulders. “Come, Ianto, we’ll go to my room and wait; I have loads of tea, of course -”
“I don’t want any tea!” Ianto exclaimed, and then dug his heels in as the other man’s words sunk in. “Wait a moment. How do you know my name?”
The shorter man blinked up at him. “Jack asked me to look for you. Didn’t I mention that?”
Ianto closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “No you did not mention that,” he said. He was quite proud that his voice did not shake with anger. At least, not much.
“Oh. Well. He was quite sure that we would be fast friends.” His mouth quirked into a smile. “So…well met?”
“We haven’t actually met, as you haven’t told me your name,” Ianto said. Calmly. “And where is Jack right now? Shouldn’t he be making the introductions?”
“Oh, Jack is … elsewhere; I can fill you in,” the man said with a wave of his hand. “I’m John Smith, the eleventh of that name. Here’s my card,” Smith flexed his fingers, then with a theatrical snap, he placed an ivory-colored business card in Ianto’s sweaty palm.
Smithsons’
Import & Export
We Move Time and Space for You
Ianto flipped it over. “There’s no phone number,” he said, looking back up at Smith.
“Really? Must be defective,” Smith responded cheerfully. He gave Ianto an oddly hopeful smile. Ianto sighed heavily. Bloody Jack and his bloody adventures. “Fine, then Mr. Smith. Let’s go up to your room and you can tell me about why the hell Jack’s not here.”
***
Ianto leaned against the window sill and sighed. What have you gotten yourself mixed up in now, Jack? He tried to tamp down on the sliver of worry that was worming its way into his heart. He glanced over his shoulder. Smith was at the kitchenette’s little table, a newspaper spread out before him. Ianto didn’t recognize the language, but Smith appeared to be reading and humming to himself. As Ianto watched, Smith pulled a magnifying glass out of an inner pocket in his suit and began to examine the paper. It was an ad for a sari shop, Ianto could tell that much, though Smith seemed to find something fascinating in the black and white photo of bolts of cloth. With a hitch of his shoulders, Ianto turned back to the view out the window.
Jack, Tosh and Donna had gone out two days before to review potential property for a clinic. They had then left the property and gone to a plantation belonging to some rich developer - a potential donor. They had never returned, and had not called. Ianto clenched his fists to keep them from shaking.
“Let me get this straight, Smith - they arrived safely at this Rahul’s property in the morning? And left around 4:00 in the afternoon?” he asked.
Smith jerked up from his newspaper. He’d been bent nearly in half, magnifying glass cutting into the skin around his eye. “What? Oh, precisely that,” he agreed.
“Tell me again what they said at Saxon’s place? Jack didn’t call; you called them?”
“Ah, well, not exactly.” Ianto raised a brow and Smith hurriedly continued. “You see, you, or ‘members of the Tyler Foundation’ to be precise, received a message at the front desk here, that the three of them were going to stay for a few days, and not to worry, and they’d talk to you later.”
Ianto blinked at him. “You stole my message?”
“Well, technically I eavesdropped.”
“You eavesdropped on a perfectly innocent message, and worried me needlessly - ” Ianto stopped in mid-thought. It was a perfectly innocent message. It sounded not a whit like Jack. And Jack would have called him directly and left a message. And Jack would have asked Ianto to join them. Despite the tenseness of their last few weeks in Ghana, Ianto firmly believed that. “All right,” he continued after a pause. “It’s a weird message. Jack would not have left a message like that.”
“That’s what I thought!” Smith nodded enthusiastically.
“What do you know about this Saxon?”
“Absolutely nothing!”
“Wonderful,” Ianto muttered under his breath. “Is there an internet café or somesuch place around here?”
***
Ianto eyed the last piece of naan. Smith was in the midst of a game of Scrabble in what looked like a Scandinavian language at the terminal next to him, waiting while a program finished running. As Ianto watched, Smith carefully selected ‘reisen’ for his next word, and leaned close to the monitor. Six whole points. Ianto shook his head, grabbed the naan and looked back to his own computer.
They’d been at the internet café for three hours now. Thus far, Ianto had determined that no one from the Tyler Foundation had heard from either Jack, Tosh or Donna by phone. Tosh’s office in Mumbai, their main office for Asia, had received an email nearly identical to the message left for Ianto at the hotel, ostensibly sent from Tosh. It didn’t sound like her, either. There were no personal flourishes in the messages to make them look like they had been written by Jack or Tosh, and nothing to indicate that they would be received by their lover or their colleagues.
Finding information on Harold Saxon was turning into a bit of a bear, too. There was nothing on him until 2007, and then a flurry of news articles and mentions in gossip columns chronicling the life styles of the fabulously rich. Saxon was a technology manufacturer, a shipping magnate, an amateur golf enthusiast, a philanthropist (though Ianto did not recognize the names of any of the charities that listed him as a donor), and an occasional poker buddy of an English actor who starred in several films Ianto had never seen. There were a couple of articles teasing some new software development that would ‘revolutionize worldwide communication’ (Heard that one before.), but his only connection to India was a short piece on his dedication to environmental conservation on the coast of India.
Ianto swallowed the last of the naan and rubbed at the back of his neck. If Jack were here, he’d be able to talk him into a massage. Jack had such warm, large hands, and though Ianto shied away from touching in public, he’d give anything to feel them on his neck and shoulders right now. Jack’s thumb along his shoulder blade, Jack’s fingers pressing hard against the knots along his spine and then rubbing the tension away, Jack’s breath hot against his neck before he gave into the temptation and applied his lips to Ianto’s neck in a series of slurping kisses. Jack stepping closer, sliding his hands around to the front, up under Ianto’s shirt to splay across Ianto’s belly, rubbing circles into the thin layer of soft flesh covering Ianto’s muscles. Jack’s other hand, moving down, unzipping trousers and dipping into pants. Maybe he’d be gentle and slowly stroke Ianto to hardness, fingers tickling along the throbbing vein, softly squeezing until all thought left Ianto’s head. Or maybe he’d be fast and rough and grip hard as his kisses turned to bites and his desperation to see Ianto completely undone played out in the slide and glide of strong fingers stroking a punishing rhythm until Ianto gasped his release.
Ianto jerked awake in his hard plastic chair. He looked around, flushing. Smith was the only other person in their corner of the café, and he was clearly engrossed in his Scrabble. Ianto glanced surreptitiously down at his trousers. No wet spots, thank God. His computer dinged at him for a gchat, and he leaned forward.
RED_LEATHER: ianto! safe in india? how’s jack?
COFFEE_JONES: jack’s not around at the moment. india is hot. how are you?
RED_LEATHER: diverted to mumbai airport - supposed to be going to south africa! i can’t believe we’re in the same country and going to miss each other!
COFFEE_JONES: still, south africa - sounds like fun.
you’ve worked in india before, though, right?
remember a bloke named harold saxon at all?
RED_LEATHER: you’re kidding, yeah? stay away from him!
COFFEE_JONES: what? why?
RED_LEATHER: megalomaniacal freak, he is.
COFFEE_JONES: jack, tosh and donna are there - they didn’t come back from his farm!
RED_LEATHER: the man’s an unmitigated ass. you should
[CONNECTION TERMINATED. CONNECTION TERMINATED. CONNECTION TERMINATED…]
Ianto stared at the screen. What was Martha going to suggest? What was the problem with Harold Saxon? Next to him, Smith was knocking at his monitor with his fist.
“Look at that, Jonesy, I lost my game! And that, you know, program.” He winked.
“It doesn’t matter about your game, Smith! Can we extend our time at all?” Ianto craned his neck around to the front desk. The old man who’d given them leave to use the computers for a fee was currently cowering before two large men in some kind of uniform. They made the hair on the back of Ianto’s neck stand up. Then one of the men pulled a small folder out of an inner pocket, and Ianto’s jaw dropped. The Tyler Foundation logo was easily recognizable, even from this distance. Better to be safe than sorry. “Never mind, is there a back way out?”
Smith blinked at him. “Of course there’s a back way! Why are we going out the back way?”
Ianto grabbed his notes and hauled Smith up into a crouch. A long wooden bar shielded them from view from the front desk, but any second now the men in uniform would be back there with them. “It’s an adventure, Smith. You strike me as an adventurous fellow! Now lead the way out back.”
Smith got an excited look on his face, laid a finger to his lips, and led Ianto along the wall and through the swinging door to the kitchen area. A skinny boy of about sixteen looked up from the stove as they crept past. Ianto tried to give a reassuring smile, but he felt like an utter prat. The boy’s eyes followed them as Smith shoved open the back door and they tumbled into the evening air.
“We can even take an alley back to the hotel,” Smith said in a piercing whisper. “Come on!”
Ianto let him have the lead as he followed him into deepening gloom cast by overlapping awnings and clothing lines stretching across the alley. He glanced behind him at the café’s back door a couple of times, but no men in uniform or kitchen boys appeared, and soon they were back on a main road. The sounds of Kochi, the call to prayer from a mosque, wooden rickshaw wheels slapping cobbled stones and hard-packed earth, women calling to each other from market stalls, the distant barks of dogs, all settled like a mantle with the bright noonday sun around their shoulders, swallowing them up and hiding them from prying eyes. They reached the hotel ten minutes later.
Ianto sat heavily on one of the beds in Smith’s room. “Those men,” he began, “how much do you want to bet they did not just randomly appear at the café? We’d been researching Saxon for an hour or so. Do you think … could he have known? I can’t think of any other reason.”
Smith shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not much of one for technology. But I suppose if he has access to some kind of satellite, he could possibly put a trace on searches for his name.”
Ianto frowned. “I bet Dr. Sato - Tosh - would be able to say so. At any rate,” Ianto stood up abruptly as a thought occurred to him, “we should switch hotels. Just to be safe.”
Smith gaped at him. “But this place has the best little courtyard! And fresh fruit.”
“We’re not going to be able to enjoy those things anyhow, Smith. Not with Saxon possibly on our tail. If you want to stay here, I don’t blame you. But I’m moving the Tyler Foundation staff out of here.”
Smith shook his head. “No, no, that sounds exciting. I’ll move too! In fact, I have a buddy, big wart on the side of his nose - don’t mention it when you see him; he’s quite sensitive about it, you know - and his brother-in-law owns a shop next to this lovely little hotel! I’ll see about getting up rooms, and a car to transfer our stuff. Don’t you worry about a thing; one hour, it will be all set up!”
Ianto hesitated. “Okay. I’ll shower while we wait, then.”
The shower was hot and had perfect water pressure. Ianto regretted the necessity of leaving the hotel, but it couldn’t be helped. If those men worked for Saxon, then who knew if they were there for an internet Saxon search, or if they were to collect all members of the Tyler Foundation in Kochi. But why? To what end? He hated leaping to conclusions. He needed more FACTS.
When he got out of the shower, Smith was gone, presumably to see about new lodgings. Ianto stretched out on the bed for a moment. He opened his eyes two hours later. Shit. He sat up quickly and got a headrush.
The door opened, and Smith pushed in a partially full luggage cart. “Oh, good, you’re awake! I took the liberty of packing up Dr. Sato and Ms. Noble’s room. I use the same shampoo as one of them!”
“That’s great,” Ianto said, blinking to get Smith in focus. “I’ll get Jack’s stuff together. Except, wait, I just remembered, I never got my key to that room.”
“No need to worry!” Smith reached into his pocket and pulled out a strange gadget. It looked like a cross between nose hair tweezers, a screwdriver and a child’s light-up microphone toy. “I can get it open with my latest invention, lickity split!”
Much to Ianto’s astonishment, Smith did have it open very quickly. He moved through the room, gathering up toiletries and a few dirty socks. Jack packed lightly, or rather, Ianto had helped him pack lightly. He ran his fingers over a couple of the ugly t-shirts Jack had insisted on bringing. He could vividly recall their last night together after zipping up this same duffel: the taste of Jack on his tongue, the slide of Jack’s skin against his own and his heavy breathing in Ianto’s ear. The way Jack said his name when Ianto was buried in his body. He swallowed, and pulled his hand back. “Room’s all set,” he said gruffly, throwing the duffel over his shoulder and preceding Smith out into the corridor.
They helped their driver load up the car and headed across town to Smith’s alternate hotel. It was every bit as nice as the one they had just left, to Ianto’s relief, and was located on the edge of a popular market area. They walked several streets over to a restaurant Smith also knew to get some dinner. In all of the excitement of the day, Ianto had forgotten how hungry he was. His worry over Jack warred with his empty gut, combining to cause him to demolish several dishes very quickly and regret it.
Smith regaled him with a story about studying animal behavior out in the field (the field being a meadow in Cambridge) as they made their way back to the hotel. Ianto nodded absently before the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up - again. We’re being watched. He could see the outline of a couple of men, possibly the same from the internet café, in a shop window and cursed under his breath.
Smith let out a delighted cackle and tugged on Ianto’s arm. “Look, Jonesy,” he hissed in a loud whisper, “they’re moving in packs, hunting at dusk, just like wolves!”
Ianto sped up and pushed Smith in front of him. “Which makes us the prey,” he muttered. His eyes darted to the left and caught a glimpse of their pursuers reflected back to him in a copper pot. He counted five, and swallowed a rising tide of panic. All around them, merchants were shuttering their stalls and shops for the evening. The market area was slowly emptying.
They’ll break you; they’ll break you for good this time; you won’t be able to walk away; you’ll fail; you’ll be a broken thing of no use to anyone. And Jack will suffer for it. His mind was gibbering uncontrollably, and he reached out a hand to grip Smith’s bicep in an effort to steady himself.
“I’m thinking about doing a study of pack mentality in hunting species,” Smith whispered. “This will make for a fascinating chapter!”
“So you’re an anthropologist now, along with a shipping magnate, amateur hibachi chef, master magician and male model?” Ianto asked. If he talked, he couldn’t hear himself think.
“I prefer fashion icon,” Smith replied, with great dignity. Ianto huffed, and picked up the pace again. A large group of men ambled out in front of them, and he steered them over to join in at the back. A quick glance behind revealed their pursuers growing closer. The voice in his head began to shriek and his hand tightened painfully around Smith’s arm.
“I didn’t know you were Muslim!” Smith exclaimed loudly. Ianto stared back at him, uncomprehending. Several of the men in the group they’d joined raised their eyebrows at him, and Ianto blushed.
“What are you going on about now, Smith?” he asked, tugging them along.
“Well we’re going into the mosque at prayer time. If not for prayers, then what?”
Ianto blinked. They were indeed following the men into a mosque. Behind them, their pursuers hovered, uncertain. Smith passed decisively into the courtyard before the entrance, Ianto still gripping his arm.
There were no other Westerners around, but Smith grinned confidently at one of the men. “My friend here is a Muslim. Allah inshallah Allah.”
The man stared back at them like they had three heads, and Ianto couldn’t fault them. If Smith was going to attempt a little Arabic, why not stick with a greeting like ‘Salaam’ instead of … whatever he’d been trying to say. Ianto gave a flimsy smile and nod, and looked around. Everyone was taking their shoes off, and he knelt, pulling Smith down with him.
“We’ll stay in the courtyard around the sides, and sneak out a different way,” he whispered. “No, no, don’t leave your shoes here!”
Smith looked confused, but he rose and followed Ianto, carrying their shoes, around the outside of the mosque itself. Ianto peeked through a tall doorway. The inside of the mosque was open and airy, pillars on the side supporting a high dome in the middle. The men were gathered in the center, and knelt as one.
“Aren’t we going to pray?” Smith hissed. Softly, this time, thankfully.
“Um, they’re praying for us today,” Ianto whispered back. He spied a door in the outer wall, and looked back, hesitating. The worshippers were all repeating the same prayer out loud. Let there be no one on the other side of this door, he added silently. As everyone else leaned forward and pressed their forehead to the floor, he turned the handle, and the two of them stumbled out into a twilit alley. It was clear.
“Come on, Smith,” Ianto said, stuffing his feet back into his shoes. Smith stood there, trainers dangling from his fingertips, and frowned back at the plaza.
“That shouldn’t have worked! They should have circled the building; there’s only so many exits we could use,” he said indignantly. “The quality of thug Saxon uses does not speak highly of him,” he muttered, finally turning to his trainers.
“Personally, I’ll take the unimaginative thugs over the clever ones,” Ianto replied. “I think we’re about six streets over from the end of our road. . .” Ianto’s voice trailed off. Two of their pursuers had appeared at the alley mouth. His heart rate increased sharply. Flight, flight, flight!
“Back this way, hurry!” He chivvied Smith along, following the curve of the mosque in the opposite direction. Smith squeaked his assent and they abandoned all pretense of stealth for speed. They rounded the curve directly into two more thugs. Ianto’s heart abruptly froze. The lead thug swung his fist at Smith’s head, and Smith stepped directly into it, the fist flying harmlessly over his shoulder. Ianto had not a moment to gape at him as the second thug was on him. For each blow he managed to deflect, another landed on his shoulder, his stomach, forcing him back, away from Smith. Smith’s attacker finally got a grip on the man, and the next moment, Smith was flailing through the air with a startled yell, before hitting the wall and collapsing in a groaning heap. A trickle of blood ran down his chin.
The sight enraged Ianto. His inner eye flashed on the image of Jack, bleeding into the dust of their courtyard in Kenya, and his left leg gave a sympathetic twinge. He let out his fear in a wordless roar, answered in the distance by the roar of a motorbike, and channeled all of his anger and pain into his attack. He wrestled his own thug up against the mosque wall and slammed the man’s head against it once, twice, three times. Smith’s attacker came to his thug’s aid, and Ianto blocked his fist, ramming his straight arm into the man’s tender throat. He went down choking, and Ianto slammed the first man’s head into the mosque wall once more. The man slid bonelessly to the ground.
Ianto whirled around as the original two pursuers rounded the curve. A fifth man appeared from the other direction. Ianto flexed his fingers. One or two, one or two? He growled low in his throat, and was answered again by the roar of a motorbike, drawing closer. All three men rushed him, and he fought furiously for the next few moments, kicking and punching. A year of pent-up rage lent him strength, and one of the men hit the ground and did not rise up again. The other two pulled away, catching their breaths, attempting to circle him. Ianto turned with them. He would not be taken from behind again, beaten and discarded without the chance to fight back.
One of the men yelled over his shoulder, and Ianto swore under his breath as five more men came running up the alley to join them. Pack hunting, indeed. They were going to die here, behind a mosque in Kochi, and he would never see Jack again, never wake up to blue eyes smiling at him, never hear that laugh again. His fists and jaw clenched, and the motorbike roared directly behind him.
His attackers drew back uncertainly. Ianto risked a glance at the motorbike, and blinked in shock. Martha Jones, Martha Jones in red leather! gripped the handle with one hand and pointed a sawed-off shotgun at his attackers with the other. The militant pose was only spoiled somewhat by the sidecar attached to the motorbike.
“Get in!” she barked at him, and Ianto rushed to Smith, helping him into the sidecar. Ianto slid behind Martha on the motorbike, and the men surged forward. She waved the gun at them, and they backed off. “Hold this,” she commanded, handing Ianto the gun. He hid his surprise on taking it. It was a water pistol, a posh one made up to look like a weapon from a Guy Ritchie film. He thought he might have seen them for sale in the market, one of the times he’d been running through the stalls. Martha revved the engine, Ianto pointed the gun, and then they were turning. The thugs rushed forward as one, but only one reached the motorbike. Ianto rammed the butt of the water pistol in the man’s face, and then they were free, out of the alley and zooming across the plaza. Ianto tightened his arm around Martha’s waist.
Smith began to chuckle as they picked up speed, transferring to roads with more people heading out for the nightlife. Ianto glanced down at him, startled. Maybe he had hit his head harder than he thought. Smith wiped at the blood on his chin. “I was just thinking about my study on pack hunting, and how I would have to put something in there of the mother defending her young,” he said, reaching up to pat Martha’s calf.
It wasn’t funny, really, but Ianto laughed, too, the tension and adrenaline draining out of him to leave him weakly clutching at Martha as she shook her head at them both.
“Hold on, you daft lot,” she murmured. “We’re almost back to the den.”
***
Ianto woke up the next morning feeling unrested and sandy-eyed. Smith had snored the entire night, after they had spent several hours going over what they learned online with Martha and comparing those notes with her own recollections of Saxon. Ianto still couldn’t believe that Martha had just hopped the next flight when she heard of the trouble, but he was incredibly grateful. And even more nervous about Saxon’s plans for Jack. He trusted Martha to watch his back in a fight. Smith was still a bit of a puzzle. Ianto wasn’t sure how much weight to lend to Smith’s interjected anecdotes (Just how many murder mystery dinner parties could one man attend? And the list of his former jobs - sculptor, wedding planner, Shakespearean scholar, among many others - just went on and on.), but they were a good distraction from Ianto’s near-crushing worry. He yawned and looked across the aisle at Smith’s snoring form. He’d been planning to wake up in Jack’s arms - Jack who seldom snored - after a night of rigorous sex. Instead he’d given his room to Martha and bunked down with Smith. He sighed and got out of bed. A shower would go a long way towards preparing him for the day.
Smith had ordered up some breakfast (porridge) by the time Ianto got out of the shower. After hastily cleaning their bowls, they left the hotel, headed to a municipal building Smith said would hold records on Saxon and his property, possibly even a helpful map, while Martha picked up a rental car and various supplies to get them to Saxon’s estate, as her motorcycle wouldn’t be able to transport their three friends, too.
They were greeted by a tiny older man at the Hall of Records. He led Ianto and Smith to his own office and gave them a thin folder. Ianto perused the contents while Smith carried on a conversation with their host in an attempt to get additional, less official information. Ianto glanced over the information on Saxon’s manufacturing plants and concentrated on the permit for his land in the state of Kerala. It was officially listed as a nature reserve and stretched from the sea to several kilometers inland. Ianto frowned at the paper. Saxon was also authorized to build a small dock for his own boats. There was a restriction on the size of the boats, but Ianto could easily imagine how easy it would be to smuggle something from a small boat out to a larger ship in the waters off the coast. There’d recently been a rash of piracy in that area of the Arabian Sea, led mainly by Somali pirates. But if they were already pirating, who’s to say they were not also smuggling? But smuggling what? And how did Jack, Tosh and Donna get mixed up in it?
Ianto’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud squawk from Smith. The old man was standing and gesturing wildly towards the door. Suppressing a sigh, Ianto rose to his feet, took the arguing Smith by his elbow and pulled him out into the hall. The old man’s yells followed them through the Hall.
“What on earth did you say to him?” Ianto asked as the door closed behind them.
“What did I say to him?” Smith wrenched his elbow away and smoothed down his suit jacket. “Indeed! The man claims to have a hobby of tinkering with all sorts of mechanical gadgets, but does he have the slightest modicum of respect for my all-in-one screwdriver? No! No he doesn’t!”
Ianto rolled his eyes. “And Saxon? I don’t suppose you mentioned him at all?”
“Hmmm? Oh. Yes. Saxon is an odd duck. He’s hired an entire security force to monitor his so-called nature reserve,” Smith said as they made their way back onto one of Kochi’s main avenues, “and guess how many scientists? Or conservationists or anything animal-related?”
“I’m going to go with zero,” Ianto said, dodging around a gaggle of children.
“Right in one,” Smith replied, flattening against the side of a building as a too-large truck came rattling by them.
“We need to get up there and see it for ourselves.” Ianto eyed Smith warily. “How are you at stealth in the, ah, field?”
“Jonesy! I am a master of disguise, anytime, anywhere!”
“Hrm. Well. Let’s see if Martha has the vehicle and supplies. I want to head up there as quickly as possible.”
***
They left Kochi an hour later. Ianto insisted they follow the same exact route Jack and the others should have taken, just in case they had not, in fact, made it to Saxon’s estate. Soon after passing Rahul’s property, they came across a jeep with a flat tire on the side of the road. Ianto stopped the car and they all got out to survey it. Ianto knelt down in the dust and inspected the tire. It looked to be a legitimate flat tire, at least. He sighed and laid a hand on the bumper. He missed Jack with a physical ache. The past month had been so hard on them as a couple, and he’d put so much faith in this trip to help heal that. A reconnection, in a new place, with none of the same worries, where they could just focus on each other. He craved it: waking up in Jack’s arms, no one interrupting them, the past staying safely where it belonged - in the past. Maybe they should get a boat and sail around for a bit. No one else on the ocean, surely. Of course, he knew nothing about boats, but that was a minor hurdle. He smiled sadly to himself. He bet Jack knew about boats.
Martha poked her head out of the jeep. “Oi. I found a granola bar. Looks like they took the spare water and their maps and papers and things with them.”
“I bet Jack’s missing that granola bar,” Ianto said. “The tire was punctured by a sharp rock. Totally natural.”
“Then they must have continued on foot from here,” Martha said. “What do you think? Should we drive, or go by foot ourselves?”
Ianto chewed his lower lip. “Let’s drive until we get to a better turn-off where we can hide the car,” he decided.
“Good idea!” Smith agreed. “I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”
Martha grinned. “Well, you can be in charge of the design, how’s that?”
They only drove for about ten more minutes before the road grew too narrow to navigate. Smith leaned through the gap in the front seat and pointed out a tiny space between trees on the right side of the road. Martha unloaded their gear as Ianto helped Smith put up a screen of greenery to hide the car. Ianto stepped back, hands on hips, and turned a critical eye on their work. He had to admit that Smith knew what he was doing. The vehicle was completely hidden. He watched, amused, as Smith bent low and gently teased up the grass their tires had flattened. Martha pulled the GPS from her pack and read out the coordinates of the car.
“Okay, then.” Ianto shrugged into his pack. “Anyone object to fighting through the underbrush?”
“No, we should definitely stay hidden,” Martha agreed.
“Oh, yes!” Smith nodded. “Say, have I ever told you about the time I infiltrated an office building? It was … nothing like this job, actually. Except for the infiltration part. See they were selling these phony weight loss supplements…”
***
Ianto hunkered down behind a tree and sipped from his water bottle. It was fairly late in the afternoon, and they had circled all around Saxon’s valley estate. Smith’s eyes had popped at the sight of all the poppies, and he’d been making Wizard of Oz references the whole day. He quieted down after the first glimpse of Saxon’s security forces. They walked the perimeter in teams of three and were heavily armed. Martha had exchanged a quick look with Ianto at their first narrow escape, sliding down a gentle slope and hiding in the damp shrubbery. They had two stun guns in their arsenal. And, Smith was quick to point out, his multi-functional screwdriver. They’d be toast in a full-on fight. Ianto wondered, not for the first time, if they should have waited for some kind of back-up, but then he thought of Jack. The odds that he was being held against his will increased each time Ianto spotted a guard, and he hardened his resolve.
“Everyone ready?” he asked softly. Martha nodded from one tree over, and Smith raised his arm and gave a thumb’s up from where he was lying amongst some bushes.
Ianto looked up the slope. They were at the far end of Saxon’s property, the sea to their right. This slope had to lead to his actual living quarters, or some sort of structure to contain Jack, Tosh and Donna. He took a deep breath and led the way at a half-crouch. The trees thinned about halfway up, so they crawled the rest of the way on their bellies and peered over the lip of the rise. Saxon’s compound was spread out in the valley below them, and beyond that, the fields of poppies they’d bypassed earlier in the day. Ianto gingerly pulled out his notebook and began to sketch the layout. To his left, Martha had her binoculars glued to her eyes as she counted out the guards and their placements. To his right, Smith flopped onto his back and stared up at the sky. “Look, Jones! An Indian Shag! Did you know they used to be called ‘sea ravens’ - not that we should take that as an omen, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Martha muttered.
“How is a raven like a writing desk?” Smith mused.
“They’re equally useless in this situation,” Ianto answered softly. “Martha? How many guards?”
“I count eight around that posh building in the middle - Saxon’s home and possibly office, I’d say. The other buildings are much more sparsely guarded. Six other guards on a rotating shift for the whole place.” She shifted up onto her elbows. “I can’t rightly tell for the fields, but I’d say, oh, a good dozen.” She lowered her binoculars and met Ianto’s eyes. “And the entire lot’s armed.”
“Brilliant,” Ianto sighed. “Okay, plan. Do we hunker down and wait for nightfall?”
“We may have to - anyone looking out a window could spot us amongst the buildings. There’s not exactly any cover, and we don’t know where to look, besides,” Martha replied.
Ianto grunted his assent, though the waiting chafed. “This is just so bizarre!” he burst out, and immediately lowered his voice. “What is Saxon playing at? He’s a communications systems manufacturer slash opium smuggler? Only Jack could get pulled into this mess.”
Martha gave him a sympathetic look. “We’ll get him back, Ianto. Tosh and Donna, too.”
“We’d better,” Ianto mumbled, “so I can tell him off.”
“Well, that’s odd,” Smith remarked, and Ianto gave a little start. He’d almost forgotten about the other man during his conversation with Martha, and if Smith thought something was odd . . .
“Dare I ask?” Ianto wondered.
“I thought I saw I saw the ginger lady,” Smith answered, and both Ianto and Martha hurriedly moved closer to him to see. Ianto couldn’t spot Donna anywhere, but something else made his heart catch in his throat.
“Hang on, now! Look at the fields - fire!” Smith exclaimed. “All those poppies!”
Continue to Part III