The Avatari (34 page)

‘That’s all right,’ Amin murmured, without the accompanying polite smile, then directly launched into a series of questions.

Suleiman had warned Peter to expect the inquisition; these men were paranoid about security, especially when it came to the Dera. As he fielded the battery of questions one by one, Peter abided by the principle which had always worked for him: he kept as close to the truth as he possibly could. He had learnt from experience that truth, with minor variations, always passed the test. Besides, they were likely to cross-check his statements, unless they had already done their homework and come prepared.

‘What work are you doing in Peshawar, Mr Jeremy?’ Amin now asked him.

‘Dr Hamilton and I are here on a research project. We also hope our findings will provide us with enough material to write a book about… ’ Peter permitted himself another nervous smile, ‘Buddhist architecture along the Silk Road. Maybe I can show you some of the work we have done?’

He reached for a bag he was carrying.

‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ Amin said, waving away the offer. ‘We would like to know why you decided to contact us.’

‘Well, you see, the present site where Dera Sher Ali Nawaz is located,’ Peter consulted a small notebook and read out from it, ‘is also mentioned in the historical texts of the Kanishka empire. This is all conjecture, really, but very exciting for us. Since we wanted to follow this up, we approached Dr Farhan Rahim at the university and sought his help in getting in touch with you for the necessary permissions.’

This was essentially true. They had, indeed, got Ashton to phone his contact at Cambridge who had, in turn, communicated with the dean of Peshawar University. Then they had waited, hoping to get a bite. That they had got one so soon was providential.

‘Farhan is a dear friend,’ Amin declared.

This seemed most unlikely to Peter, but he played along and nodded ingratiatingly. It occurred to him that he had not yet been offered a drink. He had also noticed that the younger man was glancing at his watch – an 18-carat gold Rolex Oyster.

It was at that precise moment that he looked up and saw Susan approaching their table. He also observed with some irritation that there wasn’t a man in the bar lounge who wasn’t staring at her. As if oblivious to their gaze, she came up to the table and paused. The younger man, whose eyes had brightened considerably, looked at Peter enquiringly and at a nod from him, sprang to his feet with surprising agility.

Susan held out a languid hand. His senses on alert, Peter noted that her nails were painted a bright red and thin silver bangles tinkled at her wrist.

‘Susan,’ she said simply.

The Chhote Nawab took her hand in his own and quickly pressed it to his lips.
‘Enchanté,’
he murmured. ‘I am Muzzaffar.’ He couldn’t stop gawking at Susan. Neither, for that matter, could Peter.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Susan murmured, ‘and for being dressed so informally. I really had nothing else to wear. I hadn’t expected to be invited out on a field trip. This was the best I could do. I hope it’s not too shabby?’

The fact that Susan had just stepped out of a bath was quite evident to Peter; her skin was moist and glowing and her long hair streamed down one side of her face, the ends dark and still damp. He caught a whiff of her delicate floral perfume and found himself leaning involuntarily towards her. She had lined her dark eyes with kohl, making her look almost Levantine and contrasting sensuously with the delicate rouge and soft red lipstick. Peter couldn’t help marvelling at the way Susan had managed to transform everyday clothes into something so breathtakingly alluring. She was still wearing her jeans that outlined the shape of her long, athletic legs, and a snug white lace shirt with balloon sleeves, the top two buttons casually undone. She sat down and demurely told Muzzaffar when he asked that she would like a margarita. Peter saw Muzzaffar clap his hands melodramatically and immediately, two waiters appeared. The Chhote Nawab explained to them in Urdu exactly how he wanted Susan’s drink prepared, going into great detail to ensure that his instructions would be carried out as precisely as he had issued them.

‘I take it that Jeremy has already told you about our request,’ Susan began, taking a cigarette out of her bag and looked around enquiringly to see if it would be all right for her to smoke where they were sitting.

‘Yes, indeed. The young man has been quite persuasive. But I am sure he and Amin would be able to work out all the details between them,’ Muzzaffar said airily, fishing out a lighter in one fluid move from his jacket and leaning forward to light the cigarette which Susan had now placed between her lips.

‘And while they are doing that,’ Muzzaffar continued, lighting a cigarette of his own and indicating with a dismissive gesture to Amin that he wished to be left alone with Susan, ‘perhaps I could give a brief account of my family’s association with this city, which goes back five hundred years.’

‘That would be delightful, Muzzaffar,’ Susan replied, leaning forward, her eyes lighting up with interest. Her free hand played with the thin silver chain she wore around her neck. ‘I am told your family rules this area?’

Both Peter and the Chhote Nawab watched, fascinated, as Susan nibbled absent-mindedly on her silver chain, her teeth gleaming white between her red lips, then ran her tongue slowly over the metal, as though she had never tasted anything better. Peter felt his breath quicken and hoped Amin hadn’t noticed his distraction.

‘Well, no, that was a long time ago,’ the Chhote Nawab managed to reply after tearing his attention away from Susan’s mouth. ‘As you know, we have a democracy now. But yes, the people here, they are simple folk and still respect us.’

Meanwhile, Amin had picked up the not-so-subtle message conveyed by the Chhote Nawab and was guiding a reluctant Peter to the bar.

Not long after they had seated themselves at the counter, Peter saw Muzzaffar lead Susan out to the terrace.

‘Perhaps we can discuss, er, business?’ Amin suggested grumpily, realizing that he would have to babysit Peter while Muzzaffar was more pleasantly engaged.

‘Sure,’ Peter told him, upset that he was more put out by the situation than he had expected to be, ‘but I do hope we’re going to get something to drink?’

He vengefully knocked back his Scotch when they were served, while Amin sipped fruit juice and launched into a vivid description of his various gastric ailments. He also shared the problems he was facing in getting his daughter married and procuring a good job for his son.

For Peter, it seemed an eternity had passed before he saw Susan and Muzzaffar enter the restaurant again. She appeared somewhat unsteady on her feet, swaying a little, and was laughing louder than necessary. Peter’s eyes were fixed on the Chhote Nawab’s hand that now rested on the small of her back, as if helping to guide her. His teeth clenched as he saw the hand straying further down.
Of all the dirty bastards,
Peter swore to himself, sliding off the bar stool. But with an adroit swerve, unexpected in someone who was so obviously tipsy, Susan suddenly leaned away from the Chhote Nawab, laughing merrily all the while. Peter observed how effortlessly she had managed the manoeuvre, with Muzzaffar none the wiser. Peter took a step in their direction, but Amin restrained him.

‘The two of us will eat here, Jeremy Sahib; the food is much better,’ he said, holding him firmly by the arm, then added conspiratorially, ‘it is sometimes a pleasure to get away from the bosses, no?’

Finally, when the evening was over, Muzzaffar and Amin saw them to the lift.

‘Thank you for a wonderful time, Muzzy,’ Susan said with a giggle, her words drawn out.

‘Delighted, my dear,’ Muzzaffar responded with a rakish smile that displayed a set of dazzling white teeth, adjusting his scarf which had obviously been toyed with and was about to come undone. ‘I’ll have you picked up tomorrow afternoon at four. Remember to pack an overnighter.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, he slapped Peter on the back and said, ‘See you then, my man.’

The moment the lift doors shut, Peter saw Susan straighten up, assume her usual erect posture and start buttoning up her shirt.

‘Well, I’ve got you your invitation,’ she said crisply in a voice that Muzzaffar would have been quite astonished to associate her with.

‘I’m impressed,’ Peter managed to say, trying hard not to make a biting comment. ‘Quite the Mata Hari, weren’t you? How did you manage to pull it off so convincingly?’

He couldn’t figure out why he was so annoyed. This had been part of their plan, after all.

‘It’s genetic,’ Susan replied, stifling a yawn. ‘My mother runs a bar.’

Her perfume filled the confined space inside the elevator, Peter felt he had to keep the small talk going to prevent himself from doing something stupid. His eyes went again to the lace shirt, now sedately, frustratingly buttoned up; his mind replayed the moment she had toyed with the silver chain in her mouth.

‘Well, you were quite a hit, I’ve got to say,’ he remarked, trying to make light of the situation and convince himself it was no big deal. ‘Poor “Muzzy,”’ he mimicked Susan’s voice, ‘didn’t know what hit him.’

‘He seemed a perfectly normal bloke to me,’ Susan said casually, responding to his remark. ‘He spoke to my breasts the entire time he spent in my company.’

Peter winced at her candour and flushed as his eyes met hers.

Once back in their suite, he headed for his room.

‘If the phone rings, it’s probably Suleiman,’ he told her. ‘Ask him to ring back in an hour’s time, will you? I’m going in for a shower – a long, cold shower.’ He drew out the words for emphasis.

‘Whatever works for you, Peter,’ she said, smiling sweetly at him.

As promised, the car – a Merc – was waiting for them at 4 p.m. Susan’s performance the previous evening had done the trick, just as Peter had hoped; Muzzaffar himself was there to receive them, this time without his secretary in tow.

Peter had to make an effort to keep himself from staring as Susan came down to the lobby in the elegant lemon shalwar kameez in soft chiffon they had picked up from the hotel boutique in the morning. She carried a light angora stole, in case it grew chilly towards the evening. Her hair was pulled back in a loose French braid and strands of it framed the contours of her face. A tiny pearl on a small gold hoop hung from each ear. Other than a pale lip gloss, she wore no make-up. Her perfume wafted through the air. She looked vulnerable and very feminine, and Peter turned away abruptly to load the paraphernalia of their ‘research’ into the car boot.

Noticing the cameras and tripods, Muzzaffar said, ‘I’m afraid we won’t be allowing those things to be used inside the fort.’ He turned to Susan. ‘It’s a damn shame, really, but I hope you understand, my dear. We’re expecting a lot of guests who like their privacy.’

Susan murmured with a smile that it was a pity.

As they were getting into the car, Peter made straight for the passenger door in front and slid in beside the chauffeur, allowing Susan and Muzzaffar to have the back seat entirely to themselves. That was part of the plan. As the chauffeur started the car, a pilot vehicle with armed men drove up and led the way ahead.

‘I hope we won’t be intruding,’ Susan said tentatively to Muzzaffar. ‘I mean, we hardly know anyone.’

‘Please,’ Muzzaffar entreated her, ‘you mustn’t feel apologetic about it. It’s a family get-together. All very informal. You’ll be just fine. And I’ll be there to look after you the entire evening.’

Watching them in the car’s side-view mirror, Peter saw Muzzaffar take Susan’s hand in his own.
Hook, line and sinker
, he thought to himself.

They headed north on a well-maintained road and crossed the Kabul River at Mian Khel. They were now well into the interiors of the Pakhtun-dominated province, an area for which the visas Susan and Peter had been issued were not valid. At the very first police outpost, Muzzaffar rolled down his window and spoke sharply to the policeman who had dared to flag them down and look in. The Chhote Nawab was rewarded with a smart salute and the barrier was hastily raised, following a flurry of barked orders.

‘He is new, probably posted in from outside,’ Muzzaffar said by way of explanation.

Throughout the journey, the Chhote Nawab talked about himself – his family and the power they wielded, his stint as an officer in the Pakistan Army and his passion for dogs and horses. Listening to him, one could well have imagined that time had stood still and he was part of the landed gentry in England of the 1930s. Susan played along, indicating with her well-timed responses that she was suitably impressed.

The countryside became more open and arid. Through the haze in the distance, Peter made out the blue silhouette of the Hindu Kush. They passed sugarcane fields. Mango and orange orchards appeared on both sides of the road and were left behind as they moved on.

After a while, the driver moved off the tarmac and turned on to a dusty track. The men and women tilling the fields paused in their work to watch them go by; some of the men acknowledged the Chhote Nawab with a salaam. The car overtook bullock and buffalo carts laden with sugarcane, but no motorized transport was visible, except at one of the few villages en route, where a crowded bus swerved violently to one side and nearly landed in a ditch in its haste to get out of the way as the Chhote Nawab’s chauffeur blasted the horn to demand right of way.

They came to a stream where a boatman was waiting patiently for their arrival. Peter and Susan made to step out of the car, but Muzzaffar held them back. The men in the pilot car guided their Merc on to the boat, with them seated inside. Then the boatman, who was wearing only a pair of shorts, rowed them across, pushing the boat off the shallow bed with a bamboo pole. Waiting on the opposite bank of the stream was another pilot vehicle with more armed men. They had now been travelling for just over two hours in the Merc, but to Susan, who stared at the boatman still salaaming them as their vehicle sped away in a cloud of dust, it seemed as if they had moved decades back in time.

‘All these lands belong to my grandfather,’ Muzzaffar said languidly.