The PuppetMaster (33 page)

“Leaders of governments and religions must also rise with this tide, but first, they must admit a few thousand years of errors. And it must be done quickly because there is no time to spare. The message that we can work together, accept the challenges, and solve them must rise like clarified butter above all else. Those who do not accept will be left behind. The time for good deeds has come. Banners are being raised. Not a time for sadness or despair, no far from it. This is a time of passion, of healing, a time when each of us will be fully engaged. Great works will be done.”

Adam’s voice boomed across the Ghats, and from the south side the rumble of applause and stamping of feet rose up. From the north, grumbling.

“The projects have started, and many of our true leaders are speaking. . .” He began describing projects, movements, humanitarian aid, irrigation, desalinization plants, reforestation, animal sanctuaries, hospitals, schools. The list went on.

As Adam spoke, my eyes drifted to a figure standing apart from the traditionalists on the north side. He held himself in an aloof manner, detached yet still engaged in the speech. He looked oddly familiar. I was too far away to see more than an occasional glimpse of dark beard and heavily tinted glasses on a face intermittently shielded by a large umbrella. Every a few minutes another man in similar dress approached and stood next to him. I couldn't tell if they were conversing, but after some time the second man drifted back into the crowd. At first I thought the man might be a mullah, a cleric from the mosque on the bank above that side. His beard, robe, and cap gave him some of that appearance. He also might have been a well-dressed goat herder, but two observations led me away from those conclusions. From his demeanor he appeared to find the crowd repulsive and stood to the side as if he might be sullied by contact. The other was how he moved, especially how he positioned his arms. He was, I was certain, physically trained—a professional.

Then something bizarre happened. As I was studying him, the umbrella tilted backward just enough to see a pair of dark glasses staring directly at Uli and me. Immediately the umbrella shifted back into place as if he had seen me watching him. Did he know us? It unnerved me enough to whisper, “Uli, Jitka, we need to go. Now.”

Uli, entranced by the sermon and unaware of what I had just seen, pleaded, “Can we stay just a minute or two more. Please. It is amazing what he is saying, and it sounds like he may be almost done.” Jitka backed her up.

I was preparing to enter into our first real argument, when I glanced behind us to check our path back out to the gullies. The hairs on my neck stood up. A crowd had quietly filled in, students, peasants, shop merchants had packed out to the ledge. Unless we were willing to scoot back on our behinds, stand, and push our way through the crowd, we would have to wait.

Adam did indeed sound like he was drawing to a close, his voice rolling powerfully across the river front. “And what of the infant, Sharmalal? What of that innocent born just a few meters from where we gather today? Sharmalal Dijna, that marvelous product of the great energy, was left to die, Friends. His mother happened to be a bhangi, a shit-sweeper by birth, the product of an archaic and evil system of hatred and separation. She cleaned excrement from the latrines behind the Golden Temple. See the irony in that. Born at the back door of a temple of gold, she died in the same place like a rat, poisoned by cholera. And Sharmalal? He was left to die there as well. But he didn't. Compassion, you see, is a marvelous endowment. The baby was lifted up by a loving couple, fed, and nurtured, and saved from the maw of cholera. He was given the gift of life and a new name, given the gift of schooling and taught the tongues of history, math, science, and the future. And from these he learned the power of compassion, science, and common sense. And he changed. Sharmalal, by his own choice ceased to exist. It is a boon we all possess, My Friends, the choice to change. Sharmalal, the harijan infant son of a bhangi shit-sweeper, died. And Adam lived.”

As this was translated, the crowd erupted. A few, like me, had already known of his origins, but this admission cauterized them. From the left, where the bearded man had stood moments earlier, a single shout rose from the crowd. I leaned out to see who had yelled just in time to see a stone being hurled toward the shala. Then two more, and like a rehearsed scene in a play, a single police whistle shrieked from above.

In the seconds that followed, tranquility disintegrated into ugliness. I grabbed Uli's arm, who in turn grabbed Jitka's and together we attempted to roll and push against the legs of the mob behind us. Nothing gave way, and we were being forced closer to the ledge as those behind us pushed forward to see what was happening. I glanced down. It was a fifteen, maybe sixteen, foot drop onto broken steps.

In that moment everything changed.

The blast arrived as a flame before we felt or heard anything. It flew out in a fireball seven steps above the shala--a searing ball of orange. Milliseconds later the force struck me like a sledge, pounding my body. The impact, even from a distance, felt like a lead mask swung against my face. My head flew back and smacked sharply against someone’s shin. The sound arrived last, a deafening boom that echoed across the crowd and rattled everything along the Ghats. Rock and wood blew across and ricocheted off the wall just below my feet. The explosion rumbled upward into the sky, above the city, and across the river. Then screams filled the air. Shouts and the pounding of feet followed, whistles, more screams--the screeching sounds of chaos rang out for long, painful minutes. Then, very slowly, it faded to the desperate moaning of the wounded.

Through a fog I looked at Uli and Jitka. They seemed unhurt, terrified, but not visibly injured. “All right?” was all I could murmur. Both nodded. Jitka said something in German or Danish, and I could tell by how she responded that her hearing was not what it should be.

The pressure behind us decreased the instant the explosion reached us as people fled back up the gullies. Three pairs of hands stretched down to lift us up. I grabbed one and stood face to face with Bijram Nataratri and his two engineering friends. “Oh. Sri Bhima, it is a pleasure to see you again. I'm Bijram, we met just down there. I hope you remember?” He pointed toward the palm hut that was now a mangled clutter of bamboo and smoldering fronds. I answered sluggishly that yes, I did remember him. Jitka, in the meanwhile, was still pulling at her ear and flexing her jaw. Uli lifted my arm, slid inside it, and began sobbing against my side. On the steps below us panic had taken over. People were running in all directions away from the center. Eight to ten bodies lay crumpled near the shala. Smoke and bits of paper circled like tickertape in the breeze—remnants of the booklets to be distributed. People stumbled, some wandered, some called for friends or loved ones. In the midst of the rubble I saw the crushed battery-cooled hat of Marley Chapin.

And Adam was nowhere to be seen.

Bijram was going on about how horrible it all was, and that surely it must have been another attack by Sutradharak and his band of Pakistani terrorists. I didn't hear him. With a wag of my head and a good-bye, I led Uli and Jitka unsteadily up the gully to the only place I could think to go at the moment, Haroon's.

Fifty-Three

My good friend didn't call my name as we entered. I had to pound twice before he hustled us through the door and locked it quickly behind us. It was dark inside. The metal security shades were drawn jail-like down over the windows, and only a small desk lamp behind the bar emitted any light. I could barely make out the muffled sounds of running feet, whistles and sirens shrieking outside.

“My God, Bhimaji man. Are you alright? Are you hurt?” He held my shoulders and looked from me to Uli to Jitka. We each shook our heads. “It sounded like a lorry full of dynamite went off. I heard it from inside my office. What the hell is going on?”

“It was another attack, Maumed, smaller than the others, but the crowd was bigger. I don’t know if people were killed or how many were hurt, but it’s bad. The three of us were almost pushed over the edge near Lalita Ghat. I had to get us off the streets, so we came here.” I almost added that I hoped it was all right, but I knew it was.

Haroon hustled around and set three tall brandies and a bowl of leechees and macadamia nuts on the bar. I started to make introductions and he wagged a finger. “Bhimaji, I remember these beautiful women. They were just here last week. Uliana and Jitka, if my memory is still working properly.”

A hoarse laugh escaped. “Haroon, your memory always works properly. Jitka how is your hearing?”

She screwed up her face and popped the side of her head with her palm. “Fine, Bhim. Steel casing. Everything was ringing like a Chinese New Year for a while, but it has gone now.”

We sat on stools and Uliana slid close and pulled my hand around her shoulders. She was silent and trembling. I made her take sips of the brandy. I did the same, and for a while none of us spoke. One by one we washed the dust off in the Haroon’s bathrooms and returned with a little less shaking.

Haroon fetched his own snifter, poured three fingers worth of Courvoisier, and set the bottle on the bar. Raising his glass, he said, “In lousy times we drink the good stuff. To better times.” This brought a faint smile to Uli’s lips. We took healthy gulps, noshed a bit, and felt the warmth of the liquor pulse through us.

I kissed her neck and rubbed it gently. “Little better?”

“A little. Those poor people, Bhim. Gott, it happened so fast. People start yelling, the police blow a whistle und then this explosion. Adam, do you think he is okay?”

I wasn’t certain, but I knew what she had to hear. “I didn’t see him afterwards, when we were standing on the ledge, so I think he must be okay. He must’ve gotten away before the bomb went off.”

Haroon, looking thoughtful, drained his glass and said, “From what you are saying it sounds like this bomb was detonated by a remote and not by a timer. I can’t be sure, but it sounds that way. No one could have known how long this Adam would be speaking, correct?”

“That makes sense,” I replied. “It went off at a fairly crucial point.” I remembered the man with the umbrella. “I saw someone. Strange acting. He stood away from the crowd, and another man kept approaching and talking to him. It looked like they were checking with each other. He was a goat merchant or something. Maybe it was nothing, but it looked strange.” For Uli’s sake I didn’t describe how he had been looking at us.

Haroon pulled thoughtfully at his chin.

Over the years I’d come to respect a few aspects of my bar-owner friend. Gregarious to the extreme and comic in his way, he also kept sensitive fingers on the pulse of the city. He was shrewd, knew the system, and listened carefully to the more knowledgeable students that entered his establishment.

“It would surprise me if this fellow and Sutradharaka were the same, because it would have been such a brazen act on his part.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “But not out of the question. Especially if…” He stopped and looked at me, uncertain if he should continue in front of the women.

“If what?” I prompted.

“Just a moment.” He poured himself another Courvoisier and downed half of it. Setting the glass down he asked, “Bhim, have you ever considered why this fellow has not been caught? We have lived with this fear for fifteen months, and all the so-called intelligence agencies keep insisting he is the leader of the Taweel Churi. But you notice this group has never laid claim to it.”

“I hadn’t really thought about that, no. Up until a few days ago I hadn’t paid him much attention to any of it.” I glanced at Uli.

“Uh huh. Let me ask it this way then. Do you know what RAW is?”

“That would be another no.”

“I shall explain. RAW is India’s number one intelligence agency, the Research Analysis Wing. When they wish to be friendly, they work with the Intelligence Bureau, known as IB, and the Defense Intelligence Bureau and the Joint Cipher Bureau. That is a lot of intelligence gathering, and yet none of them appears to be able to locate this fellow. A lot of talk, a lot of media, and a lot of very bright people searching. So I think perhaps they are searching in the wrong place and for the wrong motives.”

I didn’t fully understand what he was inferring. “Maumed, if he has done what everyone says he’s done, then he has to have some reason, no matter how crazy.”

Haroon inhaled deeply. “Correct, My Friend. I’m not saying he doesn’t have a reason. He has committed these crimes and sixty-nine people have died in eight months, most of them in the last three. But is it possible there are reasons other than what everyone supposes? A lot of well-connected college types drink a lot of gin at my bar. It helps them generate the occasional lucid question, and once in a while one of them will ask why the agencies cannot establish a clear pattern other than it being along the rail lines.”

The light was beginning to shine under my tightly drawn shades. “They are all operating on the wrong hypothesis.”

“Ah, now you are waking up to smell the coffee, my good friend. Let me ask you another question. This one historical. Do you remember what occurred five days before the temple and cantonment bombings in March?”

More and more I was being asked to recount recent history. “I’m not sure. Do you mean locally?”

“No, internationally.”

“I was probably slaving away on the Bhavabuti play that afternoon, you remember, the one we’re making into a movie.”