The Delhi Deception (42 page)

Carla and Elouise had dinner in her bedroom. They chatted about their plans and tried to remain optimistic about Harry’s fate. When it was time for Carla to go, Elouise hugged her for a long time.

“Will you be OK?” Carla asked.

“I’ll be fine. I might even start writing again. There are awful things going on, and some exposure wouldn’t be a bad thing. Thanks for telling me about Kishan’s daughter. I will invest the money you’ve left her and get someone to sort her out. I just realized—you didn’t even get to do what you came for. You must come back to explore your own family’s history,” she said with a grin.

“Yes, of course. So, I’ll see you soon,” Carla said and smiled.

After promising Elouise to stay in contact every day, Carla finally asked Kishan to take her luggage to the car. She rewarded the staff with a generous tip each and had to wipe away a tear when she said good-bye to Kishan. She felt like hugging him but knew that would embarrass him, so she simply smiled and walked to the car. The staff had all lined up along the driveway, and she smiled, touched by this wonderful send-off. Waving and blowing kisses to Elouise and the girls, she was on her way to the airport.

At check-in she tried to upgrade her economy ticket to business, but she didn’t have enough miles on her frequent-flying program, so she left it. “I’ll have plenty of time to rest when I get there,” she told the check-in clerk.

He smiled and said, “It will be nice and cool in Cape Town. You won’t miss the Delhi heat.”

“That’s for sure,” Carla replied.

“Have a good flight, Miss Gill.”

As she was going through the security check, she heard them announce the last call for the British Airways flight to London. With a relieved smile, she realized that she did not regret her decision. Andrew would understand, and whether he cared to admit to it or not, their marriage in effect had been over a long time ago.

She bought some Indian sweets and a coffee table book on India for her parents. For her nanny she bought a dark green pashmina, and miniature versions of the “Delhi taxi” for her nephews.

The boarding announcement for her flight was early, but she decided to board anyway. Judging by the line, it looked like a jam-packed flight. Finally on board, she sighed, disheartened that she had a middle seat between two large, potbellied men, guffawing loudly and already smelling of booze. Managing a brave smile, she packed her purse in the overhead compartment and sat down.

“Darn, I should’ve taken out my Ayurvedic pills,” she muttered to herself.

The man next to her said, “Excuse me?”

“Oh, sorry, I was talking to myself.”

He gave her a curious stare and smiled. Carla put her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. She must’ve fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes she saw the plane slowly moving down the runway. An attractive flight attendant leaned toward her and said, “Miss Gill?”

“Yes,” Carla answered, surprised.

“You’ve been upgraded to business class. Please follow me.”

“Thank you, that’s wonderful,” Carla said quite loudly to her fellow passengers, who were glaring enviously at her. Collecting her carry-on luggage, she followed the flight attendant into the spacious business class section. She had the window seat with an empty seat next to her. Purring like a cat, she fell into the ample seat and smiled. As she closed her eyes, an image of George floated into her mind. A dull ache of longing and regret engulfed her. With her thoughts turning to Elouise, she wondered guiltily if she shouldn’t have stayed a little longer.

“Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?”

Her eyes flew open, and she was gazing at George’s smiling face. “I don’t understand. Where’s Valentina?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh George, it’s just… I mean, I figured it out. It’s obvious you have something going with her.”

“Are you serious?” George started to laugh, much to Carla’s annoyance. “Valentina has never been my lover, if that’s what you’re implying. She has an Italian girlfriend, Eva, and even if they broke it off, I don’t think I’m her type.”

Carla stared at him and at first his words didn’t make any sense, but then realizing her own stupidity and how she had jumped to conclusions, she blushed. The knowledge that this grand gesture of George’s meant something; that he shared her feelings, overwhelmed her. With tears of joy rolling down her cheeks she unbuckled her seat belt and flung herself into his arms; cupping his face in both her hands, she kissed him. He was laughing, and as the flight attendant approached, asking them to take their seats, he said, “Let’s sit down; we’re about to take off for a much-needed holiday in Cape Town.”

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ONE YEAR LATER
SUNDAY 1 MAY 2011

T
he gray-bearded man slept soundly, along with the rest of the household, which had grown complacent in the past five years since occupying the newly built compound in the quiet city of Abbottabad. Only the barking of street dogs disturbed the slumber of the retired military officers, doctors, and lawyers in the area.

This one-acre property, enclosed with high walls, topped with barbed wire, lay less than two kilometers from the military academy—Pakistan’s answer to West Point. But even there, young cadets were dreaming of glory and power on battlefields.

In a field nearby, the whirring sound of two large black helicopters almost invisible in the darkened sky had two illicit lovers look up in surprise. Naked under their Kashmiri woolen shawls, they dismissed the helicopters as part of a Pakistani military training operation and turned instead to the warmth and pleasure of one another.

The sound of gunfire woke the bearded man instantly. He lay completely still, trying to fathom the distance and direction
of the sound. It was very close. It was in his compound. His wife was awake; she sat up, her eyes wide with fear and questions.

Jumping out of the bed, he felt under it for his rifle, but with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, he realized he had left it on the landing of the second floor the day before. He heard his adult son shout for him to hide, but he had no time to do that or ponder on the attack. There was a rush of heavy boots on the stairs.

Instinctively, he pulled his young wife in front of him as a shield. If the attackers were American, they wouldn’t dare shoot an unarmed woman. Then, with disbelief and awe, he stared straight into the faces of two American SEALS wearing nightvision goggles and pointing their Heckler and Koch rifles at his head.

They hesitated for a split second, and then the man on the left pulled his trigger. The woman, shot in her thigh, fell down, the crushed femur not able to support her weight. As if in a recurring nightmare, the bearded man watched as the second SEAL fired, and the bullet aimed at his head hit him in his left eye. The sound was deafening. Sudden strobes of blinding light zigzagged across his vision. Then, suddenly, the lights were switched off, and it was dark.

It was uncharacteristically silent in the Situation Room of the White House. The men and women sat with their eyes glued to the monitor as they watched the live drama unfold via satellite. There were no cheers or smiles when they saw their target go down. The president simply shook George’s hand and said, “Thanks, George. Your help was invaluable, and I don’t think we would have accomplished this task without you. The United States of America is grateful.”

With a hesitant and somewhat embarrassed smile, George said, “Glad I could be of service. I’ll be on my way then.” He
said good-bye to the pensive audience, and walking out, he took out his iPhone from his blazer pocket and dialed home. A woman answered and he said, “Carla, I’m on my way now—wait up. I have something to tell you.”

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

W
hen I first started writing this novel, international terrorism had taken center stage in the public discourse and was increasingly represented in popular culture and movies. Yet human trafficking tends to flit in and out of the public consciousness and is often seen in the media as just another inevitable evil along with drugs smuggling or arms dealing.

Researching human trafficking shocked me. The prevalence and scale of the trade in vulnerable human beings is horrific and continues to grow. Governments appear to be ineffective in implementing protocols that might stem this growth. Exposure and awareness are needed in the fight against human trafficking. While I was writing this narrative, CNN broadcast, ‘Project Freedom: Ending Modern-Day Slavery’, which helped to highlight this crime. I hope more of such reportage will find its way into the media and galvanize governments and society to fight this heinous crime.

There are many individuals who were instrumental to this book being written.

My sincere thanks and gratitude go to my editor Claire Strombeck for believing in this novel from the beginning. Thanks also to Sukaina Walji for the invaluable feedback and editing. My sister Carin Murphy and best friends Lia Rattle and Preeti Kapoor were ever present with their enthusiasm and critical feedback, helping to shape the story. I will forever be grateful for your love and support.

My account of Kashmir would not have been possible without the help of Satinder Sethi, who painted it so vividly in my mind. Your time and stories are much appreciated. Thanks also to my dear friend Melody Deas for designing the beautiful cover.

To all my readers, you know who you are; thank you for reading the drafts and for your kind support. You gave me the confidence to see it through to the end.

Lastly, I’m so grateful to my husband Sabi and our four exquisite daughters, Somara, Sarina, Anjali and Carina. Without them, my life would be like boiled, unsalted rice.