Secrets of State (30 page)

Then Lena noticed something that gave her pause. The desk lamp was plugged into the wall on the far side of the room near the door. The extension cord ran under the carpet, and Lena saw that the plug by the door was the only one available.

At Stanford, she had taken as many practical-engineering courses as her faculty advisor would let her get away with. She preferred practice to theory by a wide margin. One professor in an applied-engineering class had been a stickler for safety protocols. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork I have to do when one of you baby-faced newbies kills yourself in my class?” he had asked.

Safety was just danger turned upside down, and Lena realized that she could apply one of his warnings to her current predicament.

The instructor had outlined for the class some of the more common ways people hurt themselves working with electricity. Then, for a laugh, he had offered some of the less common. One anecdote had stayed with Lena, at least in part because at the time she had found it incomprehensible.

“Someone really did that?” she had asked, somewhat incredulous.

“Right out of the gene pool,” the professor had answered.

She unplugged the lamp and removed the shade. The bulb was incandescent, which was what she needed. The fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling fixtures would not work for what she had in mind.

She unscrewed the bulb from the base and wedged the glass globe into one of the desk drawers. She hesitated, uncertain about how best to proceed. There was only one bulb. One shot. If she got this wrong, there was no “undo” button. Was it better to apply gradual pressure or crack it open with one firm shove? It was essential that she preserve the delicate contact wires inside the glass. With a mental shrug, Lena made a choice. She pushed gently against the drawer with the flat of her hand, increasing the pressure bit by bit until she heard the glass crack. She examined her handiwork. The tungsten filament that connected the two wires had disintegrated when the bulb's vacuum was broken. That was to be expected. The contact wires themselves seemed to be intact. The bulb had not broken cleanly. A few jagged pieces of glass jutted up higher than the level of the contacts. Lena ripped a page out of the movie magazine and folded it into quarters. Working slowly and carefully, she used the folded paper to protect her fingers as she pried off the bits of glass that clung to the metal base.

When Lena was satisfied that the contacts stood clear of the glass, she screwed the bulb back into the lamp. Pulling the extension cord out from under the carpet, she coiled it and left it lying in a loose pile by the door. Then she plugged the lamp back in. The lamp was a modern design with a thin metal body that was not too heavy. Grasping the lamp in her left hand, she knocked vigorously on the door with her right.

“Help!” she shouted. “I need help.”

Eventually, the guard opened the door. It was Ahmedani, the big one with the wild black beard who looked like a cross between a man and a bear. He would not have been Lena's first choice. She had hoped for the vile Umar, who maxed out at about one hundred and fifty pounds.

“What is it?” Ahmedani growled in Urdu, with no attempt at pleasantries. He made it clear that he was lowering himself in talking to her at all.

“There's a spider on the wall the size of my face,” she said anxiously in Hindi. Lena was not above playing the helpless female if it would help her get Ahmedani to lower his guard.

“I'm not staying in this room with that monster,” she continued. “You'll either kill it . . . or you'll have to kill me.”

Ahmedani actually smiled at that, and he stepped through the door into the room.

“I'll crush your little bug for you, Hindu girl. You will pay me later.”

The image of the massive bearded jihadi forcing himself on her made the next part easier.

As Ahmedani brushed past her, Lena stepped back and swung the desk lamp up in a short arc, jamming the exposed contact wires of the broken lightbulb into the soft flesh at the base of his jaw right below the ear. There was a sharp popping sound like a muffled gunshot. Ahmedani straightened up as every muscle in his enormous body contracted at the same time. The lights briefly faded to brown as the terrorist's body soaked up the massive shot of 220-volt electricity carried by the slender contact wires.

“Don't ever do this,” her instructor had warned the group of Stanford sophomores after the laughter had died down. “Unless, of course, you're trying to kill somebody.”

I guess I am,
Lena thought sadly.

Ahmedani crumpled to the ground. He was so big that he almost blocked the door. The twin burn marks on his neck made it look as though he had been bitten by an electric vampire. Lena felt for his pulse. It was weak and thready, but he was still alive. As much as he might have deserved it, Lena was glad she had not killed him.

She stepped over his body and onto the movie set. The walls of the temple were covered with plaster and papier-mâché images of the Hindu pantheon. Vishnu, Krishna, Rama, Kali, Ganesh, and a host of other gods and goddesses that Lena did not recognize looked down on her from on high.

I don't believe in you guys, or the old white man with the beard. But if you'll help get me out of this place, I will burn a pile of incense for you so large it will be visible from space.

The temple was mounted on a raised stage. At the base of the stage was an open area where the cameras would have been set for filming. In the middle of the floor was a pile of what looked like blankets. Although every part of her screamed to get out of the building as quickly as possible, something scratching at the back of her brain made her stop and look. They were not blankets. They were aprons like the kind the dentist would drape over you before he took an X-ray. Lena stripped two of the heavy lead-lined aprons from the top of the pile. Underneath was a green steel box. The place where the lock had been was now just a gaping hole that had been cut out with power tools.

I can run for help. Bring back the police, the army, scientists, somebody.

But she knew it was not true. Soon enough, they would find Ahmedani and they would move the box. No one would believe Lena's story, and if there was, in fact, a bomb in the box, it would explode as surely as day follows night.

But you would be gone,
she heard the little voice in her head say.
You would have time to leave Mumbai.

Lena opened the box.

Her heart sank.

She had hoped that she would find something relatively simple. In effect, a bomb was nothing more than a circuit. Complete the circuit and trigger an explosion. Lena knew circuits and she had hoped that she would be able to disable whatever she found inside.

Someone had gotten there first.

She could still see the part that was the original bomb and the circuitry there was relatively straightforward. Somebody, however, had connected it to a second device that was much more complicated, a rat's nest of wiring that seemed to have no sense or structure to it. The two devices were linked through a rectangular timer with glowing red letters counting down the time remaining until what Lena had to assume was detonation.

09:18:12:28

09:18:12:27

A little less than ten days.

The light was too dim to see clearly, but the tangle of colored wires and plastic switches was there for a reason. It had a purpose. Lena tried to see the gestalt, to understand how the pieces connected into an organic whole that made some kind of sense. She could not see it. There wasn't enough time. There wasn't enough light.

Maybe if she could feel with her hands, she could understand it. Lena reached inside the device that was not a bomb and ran her fingers along what looked like a mixed-signal circuit built around a comparator that could translate an analog current into a digital signal. She tried to follow the conductive wire back to its source, but her hands were too big.

“I wouldn't pull on anything in there,” a voice behind her said. Lena froze. Slowly, she turned to see Khan, Jadoon, and Umar standing behind her. The man who had spoken, however, was someone she had not seen previously. He was short and almost skeletally thin with a beard that grew in uneven patches.

“That's a delicate device,” the small man continued in his nasal voice. “Some of the circuits are positive and some are negative. The lack of a signal can itself be a signal or a trigger. It would not be healthy to disturb the balance of the device.”

Lena understood what purpose the rat's nest was intended to serve. It was a dead man's switch, designed to make it impossible to tamper with the bomb once it had been set. It was the kind of thing only a madman would build.

Slowly, Lena pulled her hand out of the box.

Umar stepped forward and grabbed her by the wrist. She could see the lust burning in his eyes.

“I will teach this Hindu bitch a lesson for Ahmedani that she will not soon forget.” He pulled her close and Lena could smell onions on his breath.

Umar twisted her wrist and tried to force Lena to the ground. It felt like her arm might snap.

“You will do no such thing,” said Khan.

Umar turned on him like a striking snake.

“You're protecting this foreign whore?” Umar asked incredulously.

Lena saw his head snap back. Khan had hit him with an open hand easily and confidently as though employing only a fraction of the strength at his disposal.

“I am defending our guest,” Khan suggested mildly. “And we have orders to keep her safe . . . for now. Why don't you go see if Ahmedani needs help? That might actually be useful.”

Despite herself, Lena felt a wave of gratitude sweep through her.

Even so, Khan's caveat had not escaped her notice.

She was protected. “For now.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

APRIL 25

W
illiam J. Christiansen had a valid U.S. passport, but he still needed a visa for India. Sam knew that he could not apply at the Indian consulate in Washington through the regular channels. For one, it could take up to three weeks for the consulate to process the application, weeks that neither Sam nor Lena could afford. Moreover, this William Christiansen did not exist beyond the passport and the fake driver's license. He had no address, no job, no social security number, and no bank account. Most important, he had no time.

There was only one person who could help. That he wanted desperately to see her and talk to her, to hold her close and stroke her hair, offered further incentive. He did not dare pick up the phone and call Vanalika. He knew for a fact that her communications were being monitored by the NSA; and Argus, he was confident, had flagged all of her lines for special attention.

Fortunately, the Indian political counselor was a creature of habit. The embassy was on Massachusetts Avenue near Dupont Circle, smack in the middle of Embassy Row. There was a small coffee shop on Hillyer Place only a block or so from the chancery building that served a gingerbread latte that Vanalika was all but addicted to. She and Sam had joked about her “daily fix.” Unless there was some pressing business that kept her in the office, Vanalika made a pilgrimage to Grounds for Appeal every day at about midmorning.

Coffee culture had come late to work-obsessed Washington, but it had arrived with a bang. In addition to the ubiquitous Starbucks outlets, the city was dotted with smaller mom-and-pop operations that sold a break from the pace of D.C. life along with overpriced coffee. Grounds for Appeal catered to the lawyers and paralegals who were to Washington what auto executives and assembly-line workers were to Detroit: the city's sine qua non.

A day after his successful foray at FSI, Sam was sitting in an armchair covered in soft brown leather in the back corner of the coffee shop pretending to read the
Washington Post
and hoping that this was one of the days when Vanalika would keep to her routine. Consistent with its theme, the café was decorated with legal memorabilia and the bar was built to resemble a judge's bench. Lawyers on their lunch break could order a “Warren Burger” or a “Felix Frankfurter.” There was also a “David Souter” on the menu, which was only identified by the cryptic note:
It's not what you think it is.

At ten forty-five, more than an hour after Sam had sat down with a four-dollar cup of coffee, Vanalika walked in off the street.

As she waited in line to place her order, she scrolled through her messages on her BlackBerry. Sam got up from his chair and walked over to stand behind her in line.

“Why, Mrs. Chandra. What a pleasant surprise.”

Vanalika started and turned to look over her shoulder. She smiled broadly when she saw Sam and moved instinctively to embrace him. But she checked herself almost immediately. They were in public, and within shouting distance of the Indian Embassy.

“Mr. Trainor,” she offered coolly, even as her eyes shone with a mixture of affection and joy at the playacting that had always been a part of their illicit relationship. “This isn't one of your usual haunts, is it?”

“No. But I had the day off and wanted to check out the new Rothko exhibit at the Phillips Collection. Can I interest you in joining me for a cup of coffee?”

“I think I can spare a couple of minutes.” She winked, breaking character. It was all a game for Vanalika, and the closer they came to getting caught the more fun it was for her.

A few minutes later, she had her gingerbread latte and cranberry scone, and they were sitting together in the back of the café far enough away from the other patrons that they could speak freely.

“Sam, are you all right?” Vanalika asked. “I haven't heard from you in days. I was starting to worry.”

“Actually, no. I'm not okay. Someone tried to kill me last week, and when that didn't work, they took my girl. Lena's being held hostage in India by someone who calls himself Zeno. If I go to the police, I'm afraid they'll hurt her. I need to get to Mumbai as quickly as possible.”

Vanalika's eyes widened in surprise and, Sam was hurt to see, disbelief.

“What happened?” she asked. And then she said more loyally, “How can I help?”

Sam told her about the car chase on the George Washington Parkway and the mysterious message from the Stoics. He left out his trip to see Earl Holly in North Carolina. His old friend, he knew, would want to stay as deep in the shadows as possible, and his involvement did not add anything essential to the story he had to share with Vanalika. Neither did he tell her about Cold Harbor. Vanalika might feel compelled to report back to Delhi, and there was no telling where that would end up. Sam could not take the risk that it would get back to the Stoics and endanger Lena. He did, however, tell her about his foray into the FSI consular database and his new credentials as William Christiansen.

Vanalika listened intently to what Sam had to say. He was grateful to see the undercurrent of disbelief dissipate and be replaced by a look of shock and fear. She had evidently agreed to accept the fundamental truth of what he was telling her.

“What can I do?” she asked, when he had finished.

Sam pulled William Christiansen's brand-new passport out of his jacket pocket and laid it on the table between them.

“I need a visa for India. And I need it quickly. Lena's in trouble.”

Vanalika picked up the passport and flipped it open to the page with Sam's picture and the data for William Christiansen. Then she slipped it into her purse.

“Is that all?” she asked.

“No. I need a plane ticket for Mumbai. I don't dare use my own credit cards, and if I bought a ticket for India with cash . . . even if I had the cash . . . it would trigger all sorts of unwelcome alarms with Homeland Security. They pay special attention to those kinds of purchases. It would be better if the flight isn't leaving from Dulles. I don't know how carefully Argus is looking for me, but if they're watching any airport, they're watching Dulles. It would be better to fly out of Chicago or even Atlanta, one of the really busy airports. Can you help me?”

Vanalika reached out and took his hand, abandoning all pretense that they were nothing more than professional colleagues.

“Of course, my friend,” she said, with an expression that managed to convey both concern for Sam and disappointment that he would ever have doubted her. “It may take me a couple of days to fix the visa, and I'll book us on the first flight to Mumbai out of Atlanta. We can fly out of Baltimore to make the connection.”

“We?”

“Sam, my dear, you don't think I'd let you do this alone. I'm going with you.”

•   •   •

It took two days,
forty-eight hours that to Sam seemed to stretch out into years. The waiting was painful, but Sam did not know what else to do. He had a plan, once he made it to Mumbai. Until then, however, there was nothing he could do but wait.

Between the tension of the long wait and the strain of the twenty-hour trip from BWI in Baltimore to Atlanta to Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport in Mumbai, Sam was completely drained by the time he and Vanalika deplaned. That Vanalika had booked business-class tickets helped. She never flew steerage. Vanalika had invented a family emergency to explain her absence to the embassy. She had laughed when Sam had asked her what she had told her husband. “Rajiv doesn't care what I do as long as I don't embarrass him,” she said.

There was one more hurdle ahead of them. The United States did not check the passports of outgoing international travelers against the computer database. Both the airline and TSA looked at the picture and matched the name on the passport with the name on the ticket, but that was it. Here in Mumbai, the immigration official behind the Plexiglas screen would actually run the passport through a scanner linked to a computer that would verify the legitimacy of the travel document. There was no reason that William Christiansen's passport should not show up in the system as valid. But Sam had not had the chance to test it.

He and Vanalika had to queue separately, Sam in the line for foreigners and Vanalika in the line for returning Indian nationals. When it was his turn, he stepped up to the booth and presented his unused passport to the Indian immigration officer with what he hoped was a studied nonchalance. He watched with trepidation, however, as the official flipped through the brand-new passport, studied the visa with what looked to Sam like suspicion, and then placed it on the scanner. Sam could see the bright light shining through around the edges as the computer read the lines of code printed at the bottom of the page with his picture and compared it against the information in the traveler database. Sam could not see what information appeared on the computer screen.

The immigration officer looked at him and compared his picture to what was in the passport.

“Are you here on business or pleasure?” he asked.

“Business. Just a few days.”

The official hesitated. Then he stamped the passport and slipped it back through the shallow gap in the glass.

“Enjoy your stay,” he said.

Sam had made it to India.

•   •   •

He met up with
Vanalika at baggage claim. Sam caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror that he suspected was one-way glass with Indian customs officials on the other side looking for drug mules. He looked like hell. Vanalika looked like a billion rupees.

“How can you look that good after a twenty-hour flight?” he asked.

“Sleep, Sam. You should try it sometime.”

“I can't sleep. All I can think about is Lena.”

She took his hand.

“I know.”

The Mumbai airport was the same wild mix of people that Sam remembered with such fondness from his time at the consulate. An elderly Tamil woman in an ornate gold sari stood guard over a brood of half a dozen grandchildren as their parents struggled to manage a small mountain of luggage. A gaggle of businessmen in Western suits and ten-thousand-rupee haircuts checked their messages obsessively on multiple devices. And an enormous Sikh with a tangerine-colored turban and a thick black beard leaned against a pillar as though he were propping it up.

This was Mumbai. Ancient and modern. Spiritual and material. A contradiction wrapped in a paradox inside an oxymoron.

Sam saw the big Sikh again at customs. He was in the express lane for travelers without luggage.
So what had he been doing waiting in baggage claim?

But by the time Sam and Vanalika had cleared customs, the Sikh was nowhere to be seen. Sam chastised himself for jumping at shadows. He was just nervous. He needed to stay focused. He needed to find his girl.

The terminal was air-conditioned and looked like the international arrivals area at any major airport on the planet. The moment the door to the outside opened, however, Sam knew they were in India. The heat and humidity and India's incomparable layers of smell—diesel fumes, spices, and raw sewage—hit him in the face like a blow. Even Vanalika wrinkled her nose.

“I've been in Washington for too long,” she said.

“You'll get used to it again quickly,” Sam promised.

They took a cab to the hotel. The cab had its own unpleasant odor that it layered on top of Mumbai's. It smelled like someone had lit a fire in a diaper pail. India had its sensual pleasures, but few of them were olfactory.

Vanalika had wanted to book them a room at the Taj Mahal Palace, Mumbai's icon of luxury. Sam had wanted something much lower profile and had been able to talk her down as far as the Holiday Inn. Camping, she called it.

They checked into their room. Mumbai was such a big city and far enough from Vanalika's social circles in New Delhi that they did not feel compelled to book separate rooms. Sam showered and changed into khaki slacks and a light cotton shirt with short sleeves. When Vanalika finished her shower, she laid a green linen shift out on the bed.

“You're going to want to wear pants for where we're going,” Sam warned. “And boots.”

“And just where is that?”

“Dharavi.”

“How interesting.”

•   •   •

They took a cab
to the slum. The class of cabs that the hotel called for guests was a notch or two higher than what they would have been able to flag down on the street. This one had air-conditioning. Unfortunately, it also had a working radio and the driver made no move to turn down the volume on the Indian pop music he seemed to favor.

Sam rolled down the window. Vanalika looked at him quizzically.

“My daughter is out there somewhere,” he explained. “I can't wall myself off from this city. I used to know it well, but it's been too long. I need to get back in touch with it if I'm going to find her.”