The PuppetMaster (48 page)

“You want me to tell you the story right now? In this mud? You don’t wish to lift me up like a shining knight and carry me away to take a hot shower with me first?” A blend of mischief and exhaustion filled her smile.

I looked over her shoulder. A growing current of people was moving in both directions on the hillside. I saw Jitka jumping up and down near the foot of the shattered bridge--a dance of joy--and I knew that it was going to be okay for all of us. We had survived, and other than an assortment of ugly contusions, scrapes, and one badly sprained ankle, we were uninjured. “Yes,” I laughed. “I want to know where you went. Then I will lift you up and carry you to all the soap and water we can find.”

She looked at me with a touch of embarrassment. “I went for this.” From a pocket of her muddied kurta, she drew out a pouch no larger than a silver dollar and placed it in my palm. I looked at my hand. A slash of dried blood split the base of my thumb, black grease and caked mud stained my fingers, and in the center the small purse sat like a purple monarch. I opened it and the fiery glitter of an opal and chain blazed before I even pulled them out.

“You bought it from the jeweler at the station? The one with the box around his neck?”

“Yes, Love. I saw it from the window and it called to me, ‘Uliana,you are his fair premika. You had better come and fetch me to him me straight away.’ So, I got off to buy it. But then everything happened. I was trying to pay the jeweler, and I saw you running, and the train was starting to leave. And then . . . I got onto the wrong car.”

“You what?”

“I got onto the wrong car. I jumped on the front one, and it started moving, and I saw you running and heard you yelling in English, and I understood what was happening. I told everyone to get off, but some of them were stubborn and refused, until the car braked so sharply they fell.”

I thought of the bullheaded chap whose life we had just saved.

Uli lifted the opal from the pouch, kissed it, and set the clasp around my neck. The stone, lit by the sun, blazed like a thousand embers.

“It’s perfect,” I said. Then I remembered Adam’s manuscript. “My bags,” I cried.

****

We didn’t make it to the airport as planned that afternoon, but I did get to finally have my coffee. And, I had plenty of time to read newspapers, eat breakfast, have snacks, and even lunch. This was all done between interrogations by very thorough officials from six intelligence agencies with lots of initials. I also got my duffles back. They were delivered to me by a railway policeman as I sat talking with a Mr. Vajpayati Panchu Rumir, a young and sad-looking anti-terrorism expert from Delhi.

He was flipping through my passport with weary eyes and sighing. “I see from your visas that you have lived in Varanasi for more than three years. You like that city?”

I nodded.

“And you have no desire to travel to others?”

“Not really. Not until now, actually. I’m a linguist and have been involved in some Sanskrit studies with a pundit there.” I was beyond weary of answering questions.

He looked at me oddly. “Sanskrit? So, you like our poet Kalidasa then?” A brief smile and I perked up.

“Honestly, his poems are the most beautiful I have ever read. They’re my favorites in any language.”

“Yes, mine too. They still bring pleasure in an otherwise cheerless world. I also lived in Varanasi for many years. It is an incomprehensible place, even for those who have lived there for decades.” He handed me back my passport. “I hope to God we catch this Sutradharak, Mr. Scott. He is a pestilent murderer who has taken the lives of many innocent people. His tongue should be cut out and he should be tied to a post for the rats to eat.” He sighed more deeply. “But, as you know, ours is a large country and he seems to have both money and a unique talent for disguise. He also has a network of connections and resources to draw upon. This makes it quite difficult for us, as you can imagine. There is a forensics team searching his cottage in Varanasi as we speak.” He pulled at his earlobe. “But I do not expect much to come of it.”

I studied him as he scribbled notes in a thick binder. He was meticulous in his notation, but thin and somewhat unkempt in appearance. His fingernails were split and uncut, the back of his hair flowed over his shirt collar as if he had no desire to manage it. He was the last official to question me that afternoon and wanted only to hear the fine points of Mejanand Whiton, nothing else. He asked me to describe details, every one. And then he asked me to do it again. His questions probed my memory like surgical instruments. I ended up recalling Mej’s habits, voice inflections, right-handedness, manner of gait, how he took his coffee, and what kind of women he talked about or preferred.

After some time, Inspector Rumir said, “I believe he may have been American, or at least lived in that country for awhile.”

The thought surprised me. “What brings you to that conclusion?”

Rumir’s thin smile hung briefly on his lips. “His jokes, Mr. Scott, all of them that you have told me sound American. It isn’t English humor at all.”

He was right, and as he seemed to be nearing the end of his questions, I asked, “Mr. Rumir, may I make a frank observation?”

“By all means, Mr. Scott. How could I deny a request from the hero of the hour?” I smiled faintly at that.

“You seem to be incredibly determined, almost dogged with your questions. You’ve asked me details I doubt I would have thought to ask myself, and yet you seem quite convinced Sutradharak will avoid capture. Why?”

He closed the binder, blinked at me with wistful eyes, and pushed an expensive-looking pen deep into his breast pocket. “Mr. Scott, I have been pursuing The PuppetMaster seven days a week for four months straight. I have written high-level opinions on reports about him. I have not slept or eaten well during that time. I have followed leads like a tracking dog, memorized the ideologies, writings, and methods of every schismatic, sectarian, or militant faction in this entire fucking country, and in this last hour I have learned that I have been searching down all the wrong trails. Sutradharak’s motives have been one-hundred and eighty degrees opposite of what I expected. All my theories have been wrong. Everyone’s has. His motives, I have believed almost religiously, would lead me to him. I hoped eventually to be given the opportunity to mete out my vengeance, and now I doubt that I shall have that opportunity. Excuse my language, Mr. Scott, but it is one big, fucking shame.”

“He played on all our assumptions. Me, as much as any.”

“And killed a lot of innocent people in the process.”

There was something in the way he looked at me, an overture to ask. “Did you lose someone to him?”

The sad eyes closed for a moment and when they opened again he replied, “My wife died in the blast at Sankat Mochan. My infant daughter lives with my mother and will never know her own.”

I suddenly felt a compelling need to say something, anything that would ease this man’s grief. My attempt was clumsy. “I have also lost loved ones, Mr. Rumir. The losses left me dead in my heart for a long time. But . . . love has come back into my life. It will for you. Write one more report, Mr. Rumir, then go to your daughter and wrap her in your arms. Show her a world of love. Show her the good, and she in turn will make a difference.”

With a nod, he said, “Always listen to the advice of a poet. When this is done, I will dedicate myself to raising her well.”

I rose and we shook his hands. He gave me his card and I wished him luck and left.

Outside, I looked across the aftermath of the explosions, tilted compartments, the severed bridge, and the debris of countless lives. Five humans died at Bareilly that morning, twenty-six more were injured enough for hospitalization, but I knew that we had been more fortunate than not. Much more. The disaster had been derailed, and the objectives of Imperial Holding and its invisible architects had been halted forever in India. Good had triumphed--at a price.

But Mejanand Whiton, The PuppetMaster of Uttar Pradesh was not apprehended that day. His Mercedes was found north of Delhi in Haryana, but he was not.

Uli and Jitka found me sitting on a bench outside the offices of the Railway Protection Force. A young woman was binding my ankle as a small crowd stared. The three of us were minor celebrities, especially Uli and me. They helped me to a taxi, and without saying much, we headed for two rooms in the best hotel in the city. Exhaustion permeated every muscle, dirt covered us from head to foot, Jitka was hungry, and we were saturated in bliss. The driver fawned over us, lifted the women’s backpacks and set them like prizes into the trunk. I let him handle one of my duffles; the other held Adam’s manuscript, and all the way through the city I held it against my chest and drifted into Uliana’s warmth. She leaned into me and gently nibbled my earlobe. I exhaled. Finding the words to the forward of Adam’s book would be a simpler task now.

Seventy-Five

Long, hot showers work magic on deep bruises and rejoined lovers. Uli and I had been separated for less time than it takes to dress for dinner, but they were minutes that felt like eons to me. Agony. So, we washed it away together, let the sweet soaps and shampoos of the Hotel Swarn Towers strip away our pain and send it spinning down the drain. Sadness was supplanted with love, bruises by wet kisses. Our bodies once again entwined like wisteria vines, just like the painting. And afterwards the three of us dined at the Twenty-Four Carats Restaurant, which boasted fine Indian and Chinese cuisine. With quiet laughter we let the fatigue settle further. None of us spoke of the events of the day; we talked of our childhoods, and I listened dreamily as the sisters recalled school games and the Tonder hearths at Christmastime.

Green tea ice-cream, I discovered, is also an elixir for some forms of pain. As we were savoring our last bites, a man in a well-tailored suit approached. “Mr. Scott?” I was slowly getting used to that name again.

“Yes?”

“I am Mr. Baj Dengal, manager of the Swarns Tower, The owners have informed me that they wish to provide your rooms and meals free of charge. The people of our city and are in your debt.” He bowed deeply at the waist.

Uliana immediately said the correct thing. “It would be our pleasure to accept your generosity, Mr. Dengal. The rooms are perfect und the food is exceptional. Please thank the owners und staff for us.” I smiled and nodded as he backed away, thanking us for gracing his establishment. Then he straightened up.

“Ah, Mr. Scott, I almost forgot. A package was delivered for you this evening. Shall I have it sent around to your room?”

Curious, I answered, “No, I will fetch it. Thank you”

“Very good, Sir. It will be at reception. The lad who brought it said it should be delivered to you before seven.” He bowed and was gone.

Uli frowned. “A package? Who would send you a package here? And why before seven?” The crease deepened. “Who even knows you’re here?”

“Most of Bareilly, I expect.”

“Maybe it’s candy or pastries from someone who wants to thank you,” Jitka added. “Or a note from Adam.” Uli looked unsure.

“I don’t know how he would know where we are,” I said. “But then again, it is Adam we are talking about.”

At the reception desk a young man handed me a box six inches by three, wrapped in brown paper with nothing more than my name printed on a label. It felt neither heavy nor light when I shook it, and the contents didn’t shift, but I wasn’t going to risk that it might create some danger when I opened it. “I’ll meet you upstairs,” I said trying to look casual.

Uli looked at the rectangle as if it were poison. “Bhim, call the police and have them look at it first.”

I shook my head. “It needs to be done now. I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve got too much to share with you to be delayed by a tiny box.” My expression told her that this was not going to be one of those shared moments.

With a small knife from the bartender, I took the package to the parking lot and set in on the pavement between two cars, that way if it exploded no one would be hurt but me. Not a comfortable conclusion, exactly. I slit the ends and carefully drew out the box. Beneath the cover, a new phone was nestled inside molded Styrofoam. It was turned on and a text message stared implausibly at me from the green screen. “Call me at 7?” I lifted it and pressed the Contacts button to bring up the list of names in memory.

There was no need to scroll. M.W. was the only entry. “Son of a bitch,” I whispered.

****

“It’s from him, then?” Uli grimaced.

Jitka had come across the hall from her room to stay with Uli while I had been outside. She asked to see the phone, turned it over, and remarked, “This is a global model. Iridium 9505A. Very expensive, Bhim, but you could call from the North Pole and talk to a person in New Zealand with this.”

“How expensive?”

“In Denmark this would probably cost you about fifteen hundred American dollars. It has some latency because the signal travels through a satnet.”

I translated that mentally. “So there’s some lag time from the satellite, but the callers can be anywhere in the world? Untraceable?’

“Right.”

I stood at the window next to a table and chairs and made the call punctually at seven. Almost immediately a voice with no discernible accent said, “I’m glad you called, Marty.” No one in India had ever called me that. Even officials called me by the printed name on my passport, Martin. He was playing games.