The Delhi Deception (22 page)

And then she walked on. It was the face that had haunted his every waking moment. Dressed in a simple, sleeveless gown in dark emerald reaching her ankles, she sang. To Harry her sweet voice sounded like heaven. After her song she curtsied. Harry was clapping and cheering loudly. Miss Rathore, the drama teacher, turned around—he was the only one applauding.

Mr. Tandon from the music department said, “That was a good performance, Miss—?”

She smiled with pleasure and said, “It’s Miriam. Miriam Waseer.”

“Congratulations, you’re in the show. See Miss Rathore after school tomorrow; she’ll give you the rehearsal schedule.”

Miriam ran off the stage, and as she was about to pass Harry, she stopped in recognition. Harry stood up slowly and then, holding out his hand said, “Hi. I’m Harry.” She blushed as he shook her hand. Together they left the hall.

They were inseparable after that. Her father worked for the Indian Foreign Service back in Delhi, waiting for a new posting abroad. Their affair was common knowledge among the students, but parents and teachers were kept in the dark. After three months Miriam told him that her father had been posted to the Hague, but she would stay on with her aunt in Delhi to complete her final year. They made their plans to attend the same college in the United States. Harry was accepted at MIT in Massachusetts. Miriam’s application was unsuccessful. UCLA in Los Angeles, however, offered her a place.

After much deliberation, Harry decided to tell his parents and ask for their blessing on his marriage to Miriam. It was to be the first unfortunate step in an unfolding disaster. Harry’s parents contacted Miriam’s parents. Her father flew from Europe to stop the idiotic liaison: idiotic, not because they were too young to marry, but because Harry was a Sikh, and Miriam, a Muslim. Miriam was taken to Europe, and Harry never saw her again …

“Mr. Singh?” a deep voice pressed politely. A man stood over Harry, his hand extended. Shocked out of his reverie, Harry looked up, blinking furiously. He had to compose himself. This was serious business. The man repeated Harry’s name.

What a rich baritone; if the man could sing he would surely be an opera singer
. It was this thought, absurd as it seemed, that allowed Harry to regain his sense of purpose and composure.

.

CHAPTER 15

A
ndrew was saying something, but Carla couldn’t hear him.
Has he had his teeth whitened?
She felt him touching her shoulders, and then he was kissing her on both cheeks. His lips were warm, but her cheeks felt cold from the fan blowing on the slight wetness of his kisses.

Carla followed Andrew back onto the veranda in a daze. She sat down, and Elouise looked at her with a solicitous expression. The buoyant face of Kishan asking her if she would like some tea shook her out of her stupor. She smiled a thank-you at him.

An uncomfortable silence followed, interrupted only by the chirping of the parrots in the mango trees. Carla swallowed hard, looked at Andrew, and said, “When did you arrive?”

“This morning. My flight came in at seven.”

“From where?”

“London.”

“Oh, I see. Who told you where to find me?”

Andrew hesitated before replying, “A colleague told me, and of course, I knew if you were in Delhi you’d be staying with Elouise.”

Elouise looked ill at ease. “Maybe I should leave the two of you alone. I have to meet someone. Andrew, please make yourself at home, and if you need anything Kishan will be happy to oblige.”

Andrew stood up as Elouise got up from the breakfast table. He kissed her on her cheeks and said, “Thanks, would you and Harry like to join me for dinner tomorrow night?”

Elouise glanced at Carla, her expression guarded. “Let’s see; we’ll chat about it later. Carla, give me a call when you’re free, OK?”

“Sure.”

Andrew sat down and asked Kishan for another cup of tea when Carla received hers. “Be a good chap and make it plain without those added spices, thanks.”

Carla inwardly groaned at this request. “Where are you staying?” she asked.

“At Claridge’s. It’s literally down the road from here.”

“Yes, I know; the driver has pointed it out to me. Apparently the best paan wallah in Delhi operates on its sidewalk.”

“Have you tried it? It’s dreadful. Some of my Pakistani colleagues were addicted to the stuff in Peshawar.”

At the mention of Peshawar, Carla’s face drained of color. Andrew noticed and took her hand, squeezing it a little too hard. Carla flinched.

“I’m sorry, Carla, but we have to talk.”

“You’re damn right we have to talk.”

“Can we go somewhere private? You could come to the hotel.”

“No! You can tell me right here, and right now what the hell you were doing in bed with that colleague of yours? Andrew shifted uncomfortably. His eyes were downturned. Carla continued, two pink spots had formed on her cheeks. “And then you didn’t bother to come after me, you just left me to process all this shit all by myself.” She tried not to cry, but her eyes were stinging as they welled up. Carla stood up abruptly and moved toward the window. Andrew, standing, tried to embrace her, but she pulled away.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.” Andrew again tried to hold her, but Carla moved back to the sofa and sat down heavily. “The truth is,” Andrew continued, “I’m a coward, and I am ashamed. Please forgive me.” He knelt down and took her hand in his. “I love you, and I don’t want to lose you.”

Carla studied him and wondered if she really knew him, after all those years of marriage. Surely she did not marry a coward. A headache was threatening and suddenly she wanted to be alone. “Andrew, I have a dreadful migraine coming on. Can we meet later?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll be at the hotel. My room number is 303.”

“Give me an hour or two, OK?” Without saying goodbye she stood up and walked through the house back to her room. Reaching her bedroom, she burst into tears. After a minute, she started laughing hysterically.
I feel like I’m stuck in a really bad soap opera.
She took out her phone to call George but decided against it. Her heart was racing as she lay down on the bed, closing her eyes. Images of her night with George crept into her mind, and she realized she had no wish to banish them. They made her feel safe and loved. Shocked with her thoughts, she sat up and drank an aspirin.

Seema knocked gently on the door, entering without waiting for Carla’s response with a package of clothes. “Sanjay tailor make delivery for Madam,” she said, smiling.

“Oh, that’s great. Thanks, Seema.” Carla took the package from her and opened it. The Armani copied dresses were neatly folded. As Carla unfolded them, she gasped with pleasure—they were exact copies. She gave the navy one to Seema and asked her to press out the fold creases. Suddenly energized and wanting to look her best, Carla took another shower and applied makeup. The navy linen dress was flattering against her golden skin, and as she brushed her hair into a ponytail, she smiled and said softly, “OK, Andrew, it’s time you and I decide what’s next.”

The chowkidar ran to fetch a taxi for Carla, as Elouise had taken the driver. After dropping her at Claridge’s, the driver asked if he should wait, but Carla said no and told him she’d call him if needed.

Reaching Andrew’s hotel room, she felt nervous, but drawing herself to her full height, she knocked on the door. Andrew opened the door quickly, his graying, sandy-blond hair wet. He had changed his clothing and was wearing a stone-colored cotton shirt with a pair of khaki chinos. His favorite tan Church’s chukka boots in suede were scuffed, and Carla found herself making a mental note to replace the five-hundred-dollars shoes for his birthday.

“Hi, please come in.” Andrew smiled and showed her to a couch. He sat down on an armchair upholstered in the same shade of champagne.

Carla looked around the room and said, “This is lovely, so spacious.”

Andrew looked around as if he had just noticed and said, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Would you like to drink something? A cup of tea or coffee?”

“I’m OK, thanks, but please go ahead—order for yourself.”

“No, it’s fine—”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

A strained silence followed, which was broken by Andrew. “Carla, there’s something else I want to discuss with you. It’s about George…”

A drumming sound in Carla’s ears threatened her subdued headache. She felt hot, beads of perspiration forming on her nose.

“George?” she asked, frowning.
How does he know? What about Peshawar?
Carla looked out of the window. She wished the hotels would open their windows. The air was so stuffy.

“Yes, Carla, George Alexander, attaché to the US embassy in Delhi.” Andrew’s tone was serious and almost businesslike.

Carla looked at Andrew accusingly. “Who told you about him?” Her voice was calm, belying her tumultuous emotions.

“George is not who he seems. Carla, I believe he’s using you in some dangerous exploits.”

Carla looked at Andrew with an expression of utter disbelief. “What the hell are you saying, Andrew? This is such nonsense. If it weren’t for George, I could have been living in some brothel or harem as a junkie and a sex slave.”

“This is exactly what George wants you to believe.”

“What do you mean?”

Andrew took Carla’s hand, but she pulled it away. She glared at him, angry and confused. He sighed, and then he said quietly, “George is a CIA operative. His position at the embassy is his official cover.”

Carla’s tone was defiant as she said, “So what? I’m sure half of all the embassies in the world today are full of spooks.”

“Carla, George is using you. Your name has come up, through official channels, as an asset to the CIA.”

“What does that mean?”

“Usually a foreigner who is recruited to assist a secret service, in this case the CIA.”

Carla was having trouble breathing. She stood up abruptly and walked toward the window, trying to open it, but it was stuck. She pushed and tugged impatiently, but it wouldn’t give. Andrew pushed her aside gently and opened it. The air was hot and loud with the sounds of birds and traffic. Tears were welling up in her eyes, and as they started overflowing, Carla wiped them away with an annoyed gesture. Andrew took her by the arm and led her back to the couch.

They sat in silence, and then Carla said, “How did you get this information?” Her voice was without emotion, the one she used for conducting interviews.

Andrew shifted slightly in his chair. His expression was anxious. “Carla, it may come as a surprise to you, but—” Just then there was a knock on the door, interrupting him. Excusing himself, he went to the door and opened it.

Carla stretched her neck to see past Andrew’s tall frame. The moment froze. She was looking at the attractive, tanned features of Leila Canaan.

“Hello, Carla.” Leila’s tone was measured.

Looking at Andrew questioningly, Carla asked, “Is this just some strange coincidence, or did you know she was here?”

Andrew was about to reply, but Carla interrupted him, “Oh my God, you came together!”

“Please, Carla, we can explain.”

Carla stood up; looking like she was about to flee, she inched toward the door. Leila walked toward Carla and said, “It’s not what you think. Please, come sit down. We need to tell you something.”

Carla was certain she felt her heart constricting. But instinct told her to listen, so she sat. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Looking down at her hands, she folded them on her lap and with a sigh said, “Leila, please go ahead.” Leila moved to Carla’s side and sat down on the armrest, resting her hand lightly on Carla’s shoulder. “It’s about George.”

“Oh please, give me a break.” Carla was irate. “I suppose you believe Andrew’s story about me being a CIA asset recruited by George?”

Leila’s face was inscrutable as she said, “It was me. I gave that classified information to Andrew. I had to— your life is in danger, and after what happened…it’s the least I could do.” A frown creased her forehead, but her dark eyes were compassionate. With a sigh, Leila sank into the armchair opposite Carla and said, “I can understand your confusion, but please hear me out.”

Carla was feeling testy and had to control her urge to simply get up and run. With great effort she looked at Leila and said, “Fine, I’m listening.

“What happened in Peshawar is not relevant to what I have to tell you, Carla. Please believe me, what you saw was a mistake. It happened only that one time, and it was a foolish lack of judgment on both mine and Andrew’s part.”

“You bet.” Carla said, her tone was bitter.

Andrew ran his hand through his hair, which was longer than usual. With what seemed like a huge effort, he looked at Carla and said, “I’m sorry, Carla. We have both made mistakes, and we should forgive each other—”

“What do you mean, ‘both of us’?”

He shifted uncomfortably and looked at Leila. She leveled her gaze at Carla and said, “Andrew is aware of your affair with George.”

The patronizing tone she was using irked Carla; she wanted to scream in frustration. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply through her mouth, expelling the air in a controlled yoga discipline she had learned many years ago. She opened her eyes and, feeling less emotional, said, “OK, what’s going on?” With a faint grimace Leila said, “You’re not going to like it, but here goes.” She opened her leather satchel and took out some documents and large black-and-white photographs, placing them on the coffee table. In a rather dramatic gesture, she looked through the photos and placed one of George, dressed in a suit, on top of the pile.

“George Theodore Alexander.” Carla frowned, but Leila continued unperturbed.

“Recruited by the NCS in one of their earlier Undergraduate Internship Programs while he was studying engineering at Harvard. His personal relationship with the daughter of a well-known political Pakistani family gave him the legitimate cover, and as he became more interested in this line of work, he switched to political studies. He is a gifted linguist, fluent in Greek, Italian, and French. On the urging of his handlers in Washington, he took up Arab, Farsi, and Urdu.” Leila paused, studying Carla’s face intently. Then she continued in the same professional voice.

“After graduation he was offered an overseas post as a junior attaché at the US Embassy in Islamabad. He was hugely successful, especially as he had the interpersonal skills of using his contacts well, particularly the ones made through his relationship with the Pakistani girl he had met at Harvard. He had access to people and places no one at the US Embassy had ever managed to procure. Needless to say, his career was jumpstarted, and he became the golden boy of Langley, reporting straight to the director of the CIA.’

Carla stood up rather abruptly and said, “Excuse me, may I use the bathroom, Andrew?”

“Of course, it’s this way,” he said, standing up.

Carla locked the door and sat on the edge of the bath, not even noticing the exquisite Italian marble. She rummaged through her purse, sighing with relief as she found two paracetamol capsules. The dull headache that had started earlier had developed into a throbbing pain behind her ears and neck. She swallowed the pills, drinking from a bottle of Himalayan mineral water. Sitting still, she waited for it to abate.
How the hell did I get myself into this mess?
she thought, standing up and opening the bathroom door.

“Are you all right?” Andrew asked; his eyes were concerned.

“I’m fine. So, is there more?”

With a somber expression Leila replied, “I’m afraid so. Please, come sit down. George remained in Pakistan until 2001. He befriended an Afghani by the name of Asef Ali Khan.” Leila placed another black-and-white photo over George’s.

“Oh my God, I’ve seen that face before,” exclaimed Carla. The photo showed a turbaned man with light colored eyes and a graying beard.

“Here in Delhi?” Leila asked.

“Yes, I saw him in Lodhi Garden, and then I seem to remember him from somewhere else…”

“Try to remember. In the meantime I’ll continue. George learned to speak Pashtun and spent some time in Asef’s village. We were concerned at the time, but George assured us that Asef was just a friend, and it gave him the opportunity to get to know Afghanistan and its people.”

“Just a minute,” Carla interrupted. “What do you mean by ‘we’?”

“Oh, I’m sorry—I should have explained myself. I went to Cambridge, as you know, majoring in Middle Eastern studies where I, too, was recruited by the CIA. My cover at the BBC is genuine. I met George in Pakistan while on a field mission.”

Carla was staring at Leila in utter disbelief. Andrew noticed and cleared his throat before saying, “I know it is all rather confusing. I had no idea Leila was working for the Americans as a spy.” His tone irritated Carla— she didn’t need him to reassure her of anything anymore, she thought, and told Leila to continue.

“In October 2001, the war in Afghanistan started, and after a debriefing in Langley, George was sent to Kabul in January 2002. His knowledge of Afghan languages made him extremely valuable, as well as his flair at recruiting assets. Asef Ali Khan became an asset, but on George’s insistence remained under the radar. During the first elections of 2004, George provided some really useful intel.