The Delhi Deception (21 page)

Andrew glanced briefly in Elouise’s direction and said, “I wanted to see Carla actually. I believe you know what happened…”

“Oh yes, that.” He sat down, nodding his head in what seemed to be mild amusement. “Where is our lovely guest, still sleeping?” he asked, looking at Elouise.

She gave him a look that could’ve turned him to stone. “Carla is out; she’ll be back soon.”

Seeming to enjoy the awkwardness of the situation, Harry rejoined, “I see. Where did she go?”

Elouise said with a tight little smile, “She went out with George.”

“Ah, George. Charming George?”

“Yes, Harry, George Alexander from the US Embassy.”

“The same George you had a ‘thing’ for?” Harry taunted but his eyes were wary.

With flushed cheeks Elouise said, “I’ve never had a ‘thing’ for him, as you put it.”

She seemed immensely annoyed and Harry decided to stop teasing. Turning toward Andrew he said, “You must join me for a game of golf before you leave. I have an extra set of clubs.”

“Thanks, I’d like that.” The dark circles under Andrew’s eyes accentuated his pallor.

“I’m off to work. Do we have any dinner plans tonight?” Harry asked Elouise.

“No. Nothing. Do you want to go out?”

“Not really, we can eat at home. I have a lunch meeting so I’d like a light supper. See you later.” He kissed Elouise on the top of her head, shook Andrew’s hand, and then drove off in his jeep.

It didn’t take him long to reach his office in Lodhi Colony. His secretary, a young man wearing black pants and a white shirt, greeted him and ran off to get him a cup of tea. The office was in a separate part of a large residential bungalow complex. It had a small reception leading to a room with a large desk, computer, and steel filing cabinets. Harry sat down, sighing as he switched on the computer. He opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a file, opening it.

Knocking softly, and then opening the door, the secretary came in. He carried a white porcelain cup that he put on a carved wooden coaster to the right of the computer.

“Thanks. Any messages?” Harry asked without looking at the young man.

Clearing his throat his secretary said, “The office of the Ministry of Defense called late yesterday afternoon when you had left. They didn’t leave a message, asking only if you’d be in today.” Harry looked up briefly from the computer screen. The young man continued, “Dr. Goyal called from BARC earlier this morning and asked you to call him back on his mobile number.”

“That’s it?” Harry asked.

The secretary nodded and asked if he would like another cup of tea.

“No thanks, Tahir. And by the way, I’ll be having lunch with a friend today so cancel the meeting with the young Caltech graduate. What’s his name?”

“Ali Mussafir, sir.”

“That’s right, reschedule for later this week.”

Tahir returned to his post in reception, closing the office door on his way out.

Harry watched the door closing, a feeling of angst overwhelming him. He dug deep into the bottom desk drawer and brought out a container of tablets. Gulping down two with the very hot tea, he burned his throat. Wincing, he closed his eyes for a few seconds. And then, with a groan and a fixed stare at the computer screen, he started typing.

An hour later, the secretary brought Harry another cup of tea. Highly irritated at the sudden break in his concentration, Harry waved him away with “I did not ask for tea. Don’t interrupt me again, do you understand?” The perplexed young man quickly stepped back and emptied the tea into the sorry-looking pot plant on the desk.

At twelve thirty, Harry switched off his computer and locked away the file he was working on. As he walked past his secretary’s desk, Harry muttered something inaudible. The young man smiled and nodded.

Harry cursed the traffic under his breath. It was inordinately heavy for that time of day. A line of devotees was eating prashad in bowls made from leaves in front of a temple on the right side of the road. After a few minutes, he turned into a residential area where the large houses stood close to each other. Finding a parking space in front of a shop selling perfumes and crystal decanters, he asked a young boy to watch his jeep. He paid him ten rupees with the promise of another ten on his return, then walked away.

The street narrowed. Groups of merchants and moneychangers lined the sides. Wooden carts on bicycle wheels were either loaded with fruit or fridges of ice cream and popsicles. Litter was piled high everywhere. All the men wore kufi skullcaps. There were a few women— all wearing the hijab. Harry walked past a restaurant. There were chefs cooking out on the pavement. A young boy sat lethargically swatting flies away from the skewers hanging on a metal rail next to the tandoor oven.

Harry hurried on. His head was uncovered, but no one seemed to notice. An American woman asked a merchant selling dates and dried fruit if she could take a photo, but with a scowl he wagged his index finger at her. She apologized, but the flash of light from the camera indicated that she had taken the photo anyway. This irked Harry.

A large gray concrete building of arches and cement jali windows dwarfed the end of the lane, and Harry couldn’t help thinking that this was what a mosque would have looked like if it had been built in Communist Russia. The lane became a corridor of narrower stalls of Quran and prayer bead sellers on either side. Harry had overtaken the American, and as he approached a restaurant called Karim’s, he heard a commotion behind him. The angry American was remonstrating loudly, pointing to a youth who had apparently fondled her bottom. The crowd around the woman was growing, and Harry had to fight the urge to beckon her into the safety of the restaurant. With a contrite clenching of the jaw, he turned his back on the ensuing mayhem.

The dirty white lace curtains on the aluminum doors belied the elegant interior of this Kashmiri restaurant established in the early nineteen hundreds. The carved, walnut-paneled interior created the famous Kashmiri houseboat effect. Booth tables with leatherette upholstery lined the sides, with a few square tables in the center of the restaurant. Two exquisite silk carpets framed in gold hung against the wall. The tables were laid with yellow tablecloths and maroon overlays.

A team of pathani-dressed waiters hovered at the entrance, smiling broadly as they showed Harry to the booth table in the far right corner. The restaurant was empty, but within minutes a couple with two children entered and sat at a table at the other end of the room. The man looked Iranian and was dressed in gray flannel trousers with a navy blazer. His wife, wearing jeans and a black hijab, scolded the round-faced little boy, who had scattered toothpicks on the floor.

Feeling hot and bothered, Harry ordered sweet nimbu and soda. A menu was brought to the table, but he was preoccupied with his iPhone. He didn’t notice the woman, in full burqa, enter and walk toward his table. She stood quietly for a while and then cleared her throat, startling Harry. Slightly embarrassed, he asked her to sit down. Clearly uncomfortable, she pushed the table rather clumsily toward Harry and then planted herself heavily on the seat.

Harry bowed his head slightly and said, “Salaam aleikum.”

His companion responded, “Man, it’s hot under this thing.” The voice was that of an African man.

Harry smiled and said, “Sorry, but I can’t be seen with you. Have a cold drink.”

The man grunted and said, “I suppose an ice-cold beer is out of the question.”

The image of a burqa-clad “woman” drinking a beer amused Harry, eliciting a stifled chuckle. But his meeting with the man was no lighthearted matter. He ordered another nimbu soda and asked, “Are you ready for lunch?”

“Sure, I just don’t know how I’m going to eat under this thing.” Ignoring him, Harry ordered tandoori murgh, rogan josh, naan, and roomali roti. As soon as the waiter was out of earshot, Harry looked at the African, whose eyes were dark and unfathomable, but strangely feminine peering through the narrow slit in the burqa. “So, I believe you have something to sell?” Harry asked, hiding his hands under the table. They were trembling.

For a fleeting moment the African’s eyes flashed with apprehension; it could have been anger. He sat back against the seat and drew himself up to his full height. Harry realized he had forgotten to use the agreed passphrase. “Uh, I meant to say the temperature in Delhi this year is said to reach forty-eight degrees Celsius.” Harry was sweating, even though the air-conditioners were humming, cooling the interior to a comfortable twenty-two degrees.

After what seemed like an age, the African slumped forward and replied, “I was told that an unseasonable heat wave could strike as early as next week.”

Harry continued, “The price has been agreed on. The transfer will be made on receipt of the goods. You are to give me the address.”

“It’s at the container depot in Tughlaqabad.” The man slipped his hands into his robes and took out a document that he handed to Harry. “The bill of lading—you must give it to a Mr. Ramesh Gupta. He’s been well paid to allow you access and total privacy with your people.”

Harry glanced at the papers and said, “Is that it?”

With a puzzled look the African replied, “That’s it from my side. I’m out of here this evening back to Cape Town via Dubai. The transfer into our Mauritian account has to be made within the next twenty-four hours.” He paused, drank half of his nimbu soda, grimaced slightly, and said, “Only then will our ‘guarantee’ be released into safe custody.”

Harry nodded. He looked at the air-conditioners again. Beads of perspiration were dripping down the side of his face. He used the maroon napkin to wipe them away.

With a flourish, two waiters placed the aromatic dishes on the table. The African murmured with pleasure and broke off a piece of naan, stuffing it uncomfortably into his mouth under the cloth. Harry had no appetite. The rogan josh looked oily.

The African looked at him curiously, chewing loudly under his disguise. Harry broke off a piece of the bread and ate it slowly, dipping it carefully into the gravy. After what felt like an unbearable hour, the African washed his hands in a stainless-steel finger bowl, burped, and, greeting Harry, left.

Harry sat still for a few seconds, his face drawn. Then he stood up quickly, leaving cash in the bill folder. The waiter hurried after him with the change, but Harry waved him away. His tip was more than generous, and the waiter stood staring after him, a broad grin spreading across his face.

As Harry entered the lane, he patted his pocket where he had put the folded documents to make sure they were secure. It was more congested than earlier, and Harry had to walk slowly, almost in bodily contact with the crowd. A woman carrying a baby with a severe cleft palate tried to push the baby onto Harry. She was wailing, begging him to take the child. She pretended to drop the baby, and instinctively Harry caught the howling child. The crowd blocked the woman as she was trying to hurry away. Harry called her back angrily, the hysterical child struggling in his arms. Some men dressed in long white robes noticed his dilemma and ran after the woman. She was caught by the hair, having lost her hijab in her hurry to get away. She kicked and tried to bite the man’s hand, but another was dragging her by the arm. When they reached Harry, another woman, wearing a floral hijab, had taken the baby roughly from him. She was saying something to Harry, but in the deafening commotion he couldn’t hear her. More women had appeared, and arguments ensued. Harry slipped away unnoticed.

Reaching the jeep, he paid the young boy, scolding him for sitting on the bonnet. Shamefaced, the boy ran away. Harry’s hands were shaking on the steering wheel as he approached the Oberoi hotel and stopped at the drive-through entrance. A valet took the car keys from Harry, who then headed for the security check. He walked past the bookshop and the Louis Vuitton boutique in the foyer and headed toward the “Threesixty” restaurant. Explaining to the hostess that he was waiting for someone, he sat down on the tan leather couch.

“Would you like a drink?” the young woman asked.

“A Kingfisher beer, thanks.” Harry smiled and thought,
What the hell, a beer in these circumstances won’t hurt
.

He scanned the restaurant as memories of his childhood flooded his mind. He knew this building well. He had once been a pupil at the Delhi Public School, a private co-ed school opposite the Oberoi. Although there were more than 350 pupils per grade, the school was, at the time, one of the better institutions in Delhi. Some parents were willing to pay well over the required fees in order to gain admission for their children. Most of the students were from wealthy families, and some would spend their lunch money at the internationally famous coffee shop of the five star–rated Oberoi.

It was during a rather long and illicit lunch at the Oberoi that Harry fell in love for the first time. It was 1988, his final school year. His friends had ordered French onion soup and two club sandwiches to share when he saw the most beautiful girl in the world. Two women dressed in fashionable clothes, obviously from abroad, accompanied her. The girl wore a white skirt and shirt with a bottle-green belt, the official uniform of D.P.S. She looked over her menu at Harry, and he found himself mesmerized by her crystal-clear green eyes, demurely framed by thick, dark lashes. He could not take his eyes off her. Taking full advantage of the moment, his hungry friends wolfed down his share of the sandwiches.

Harry knew that he had to find out who she was— not an easy task at his mammoth school. The girl left with the women, and as she reached the exit she looked back over her shoulder at Harry. He could happily have died on that day, having found true love.

The quest to find her was much easier than anticipated. The school was hosting a
Flashdance-
style competition. Harry had no interest in song and dance; even the Bollywood films his parents so enjoyed to watch annoyed him. It was a hot afternoon in May, and the driver sent to pick him up was late. He stood around for about ten minutes and then, unable to stand the heat any longer, went inside in search of a room with a fan. The classrooms had been locked, so he went into the school hall. Auditions for the competition were in full swing. Feeling awkward but determined to enjoy the cooler air from the ceiling fans, he sat down on a chair in the back row. A group of girls wearing leotards and knitted ankle warmers left the stage.