The PuppetMaster (49 page)

“You seem to have lost your accent, Mejanand, though I don’t suppose that is your real name.”

“I don’t have a real name, Marty.”

“Of course you don’t. Nothing is real about you, is it?” I wanted to shriek into the phone, but knew it would do no good.

“Not much, you’re correct.”

“But it’s true that you’re a cold-hearted murderer of innocent people.”

“Another correct assessment, Marty,” he answered. “But they weren’t people to me, you see, just numeric objectives.” His voice was flat, no inflection or emotion.

“It must have greatly disappointed you today then.”

“Yes it did. You did play it well, Marty, beat me at my own game. I realize now I should never have let you in.”

“You mean let me so close to you. Why did you do that?”

There was a pause not due to the satellite. “I liked the dance, my friend. I really did.”

“I’m not your friend. Honestly, I don’t think I ever liked you. I just enjoyed the Frisbee. You don’t have a single person in your world you can call a friend, do you?”

For the first time in the conversation there was a sigh. “Correct again, Marty.”

“So, why did you send me a fancy phone and have me call you? Trying to impress me? Because I’m pretty certain it wasn’t to apologize.”

A longer pause followed. “There were three things I thought you should know, and a question I would like answered.” I waited. “First, they won’t find me, Marty. Ever. You should know that.”

I was pretty certain he was right. As Inspector Rumir had admitted, he was too well moneyed and too damned smart. “Maybe, but maybe the others will find you, the bad boys you pissed off when Imperial Holding went down. They might know better where to come looking. Am I right?”

From a small, sharp inhale, and I knew I had hit a nerve. “That is a possibility, something I may have to deal with,” he admitted quietly.

“So what’s the second thing, Mej?” My voice had risen a notch in anger.

“I have an apology. The sweeper girl, she wasn’t part of my plan, she recognized me from an error I committed.”

That one stung. The cords tightened around my chest and I could tell he knew it. “And the third?” I asked quietly.

“You shouldn’t take the Hadersen woman back to Varanasi, Marty.”

I tried to control my breathing, but my pulse was flooding into my temples. “Why not?”

“The Imams at Alamqir Mosque know who she is and who her father is. Qereshy knows, and by tomorrow night every Muslim in the city will know. The excitable ones, well you know how they can be.”

My palm was slippery around the phone, and the room spun like a carousel. My God! The risk will be everywhere. She can’t stay in the country. “Was this one of your arrangements?”

“Not at all,” he sighed. “A nasty little informant in Shivdaspur discovered it, and he or she decided to make some profit from it.” The transvestite that had argued with us.

“So that one is sort of a gift then?”

“You might call it that.”

“That’s three, what’s your question?” My legs were sagging. I sat in the chair and pushed the hair and sweat from my forehead.

“What was in the cave that was so important to you? The excavators from the mine got inside, and I was told it was just scratches all over the walls. Stick letters. Nobody could figure any of it out, so they made certain it was covered up again.”

I shut my eyes tightly. We were at the end. The dance was nearly over, and I wanted a final spin of the disc that would leave him hurting. “Something very important was is in there. Something I hope you think about as you are running like a rat to the next hiding hole, wondering if the waiter who’s bringing your beer is going to shove an ice-pick into your neck. Those little stick letters? They’re a cure for diabetes. They are going to spread more good in the world, and make more money for the right people than all the weapons-grade uranium your asshole friends ever sold. And there’s more. Buried below, there may more. Who knows? But we’re going to find out. And right now that cure is being securely wrapped and given freely to the world. This is one time when the good guys win, Mej. Can you understand what that means?”

There was a long pause and then, in pure cockney, he replied, “It was a foocking good session, Mate. You’re the best.”

Then the phone went dead.

Seventy-Six

Rawalpindi—Female suicide bomber kills 21 and wounds 74.

Malé—Terror bomb explodes in the Maldivian capital injuring 12 foreign tourists.

Ludhiana---Bomb explodes in the Shingar Cinema, killing 7 and wounding 20.

Blasts in Varanasi, Faizabad, and Lucknow kill 15 and injures more than 80.

Amarah--Three car bombs detonate killing at least 40 and wounding 125.

Six months of headlines leading up to the explosion at Bareilly glowed on my laptop. I was waiting for Uli and Jitka, and the list was a simple exercise I was performing, research of some personal significance. With time, I knew I could probably find enough entries to fill a medium-sized book. My half-year’s worth was still growing. Twenty perished when a female assassin blew herself up—a girl. Another female, wearing a vest of explosives, killed nine in Diyala. Most would have needed Google just know where that was. The targets? Innocents in cities around the world--cafes, malls, movie theaters, parks, and consulates, any place with a crowd. They were the Somas and Mina Rumirs of the world. The headlines, with thinly detailed stories, gave the feeling that they were merely numbers. Numeric objectives, as Mej had said.

The wreckage of the explosions at the Ghat and bridge would stay with me--scenes I would never forget. The people who had fallen that day were not numeric objectives. They were humans. They were brothers, and mothers, and sisters, and fathers. They were children all. As I sat in Indira Gandhi International Airport, pulling up story after story, I thought very carefully about that and vowed never to forget or let it go. I thought about the murderers, The Sutradharaks, the fanatics, the ultra-one-side-or-the-others, the misled martyrs of false causes. They had all been duped.

And I thought about Uliana and me.

After Mejanand had hung up, I had made three calls on the global satphone in the hotel Bareilly. The first to Panchu Rumir to tell him of the call. He asked me some questions forgotten during the afternoon session. He then promised to send an officer around to retrieve the phone in the morning; the phone and billing account would be investigated. The second was to SAS, the Scandinavian Airlines. One ticket added, one modified. And the last was to Sahr.

“Bhimaji! You are safe? The radio has been saying hundreds were sent to the hospitals.”

“I am fine, Sahr. Three dozen were injured, no more. I’m a little bruised up, but nothing that your saag paneer and puris won’t fix. And please ignore the news on the radio; it will be weeks before they get it straight. Okay?”

“And the Memsahibs? Jitka and Uliana? They are also unhurt?” There was so much concern in her question.

“They are also unhurt.” I echoed. “I will be back in a few days, maybe less.”

“But, I thought Bhimaji was going to the Mountains of Himachal on a vacation with his beautiful premika.”

“I will be returning alone, Sahr, very soon.”

“Alone? But…”

“It is a long story, one I don’t have time for right now. Tell Lalji to lock everything well and continue to guard our gate.” My eyes closed. “There is still some chance of danger.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Bhimaji, there have been rumors, very ugly gupchup, coming out of the Muslim neighborhoods.”

“That is exactly what it is, Sahr, ugly gupchup. Ignore that too. I will see you in a few days and call you from Lucknow when I know my arrival time.”

Sahr always knew when to cease questioning. “Chicken bhiryani, your favorite, will be waiting, Saab.”

We easily found a ride into Delhi the following morning. A guest of the Swarns Tower, whose mother had been on the train the day before, was more than happy to chauffer ‘his mother’s saviors’ to the capital. He chatted loquaciously as we started out on NH24, but then fell silent for the next four hours in deference to our own quiet moods. Eventually, he dropped us at his office at Connaught Place in the center of the city. We took an even quieter taxi ride to the airport. And that is where I now sat with the Chandragupta’s computer in my lap, trying to keep my thoughts occupied with something other than Uliana Hadersen going in another direction. Copying headlines of bomb blasts was probably not the best activity.

The sisters, sans backpacks, walked slowly through the bustling corridor towards me. Jitka’s elbows were bandaged and both of Uli knees were taped with gauze. I set the computer to the side and stood with the help of a rather ugly aluminum cane. The only ache I really felt was in my chest. “So, it is set, then?” I asked miserably.

Uli slipped into my arms. “Yes, My Love. In ninety minutes, and you are not allowed to be so sad. It will not be that much time apart.” She pulled her head back to look at me. “Will it?”

I touched her cheek. “I don’t know. It depends on how much Master Devi needs me. Undoubtedly, he will say he doesn’t need me at all, but he does. I can’t leave him to fend for himself with this unfinished business. Without C.G., and the possibility of more translations.”

She looked wistful. “I wish I could have seen it, you know, the inside of your mysterious cave. Perhaps when it is safer we can go?” It was a question whose answer was held in a nebulous future.

“Perhaps,” I answered, “But not now.”

She smiled sadly. “Und my handsome tour guide never got to take me to Sarnath to walk on the paths of the Buddha.” A caress on my cheek.

“Maybe . . . maybe someday we can go there, too.”

At that, Jitka actually started weeping. In a raw voice, she whispered, “I vill take good care of her, Martin. No harm will come. And when you come to Tonder we will celebrate in a big party with flaekesteg und kransekage and ten barrels of wine und beer.”

I looked to Uli who mouthed, “pork roast and almond cake.”

Jitka slapped a hand on my shoulder. “Und I will show you how gut is Denmark, and when you gut and ready, you will take my sister to see your home by the ocean, ya?”

I smiled and replied in what was undoubtedly the worst accent ever, “Ya, kan du hjaelpe mig? Hvor er toilletet?” ‘Can you help me? Where is the bathroom?’ I’d found it hastily online.

Jitka laughed and elbowed my ribs. “Those will be very gut to remember when we drink beer.” She kissed Uli on the cheek and gave me a crushing hug. “I am going now. You remember our gate, Uli?”

“I remember, Svester.”

With a wave, she was gone, and Uli and I once again stood alone in the middle of a stream of people. We wrapped like lovers being torn apart by winds. She kissed my neck. “I will be only half a woman until I am with you again. Less than that I think. ‘Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.”

“Khalil Gibran?”

“You are so good,” she smiled.

“How about this one, then? Blow O wind to where my loved one is. Touch her and come to touch me soon.”

“Ach, too easy, Sita talking to the wind in the Ramayana. I read it, remember? But I believe she says she wants to touch him, not her.”

“A little change on my part.”

Her eyes were filling with tears, which started mine to fill. “I will hurry Uli. Thinking of you every waking minute, waiting like a frozen tree for the warmth of Spring.”

She kissed me like she did on our first date in Varanasi, not too long, but with such sweetness. “Always my poet,” she whispered.

I handed her the single, folded sheet. “My last lines for a while. Read it now or wait.”

She opened it and read aloud, as I knew she would.

We are forged in the chest of a star, you and I,

In the beating heart of the universe,

Unbroken, constant and endless light.

We are fashioned like orbs in the center,

Our eye, the suns and spinning moons.

Yet in the silent void of untold space,

When all has fled back to nothingness

And the dust of eons is all that remains,

Blackness will not draw across our light

For we will shine ever and ever and ever on.

Our tears were coming without restraint as crowds hurried by. “And the Sanskrit version?”

“I’m still working on that part.”

“Good,” she said. “I will wait for it. Look for the good things, Marty.” She kissed me again and turned to walk towards security. My only thought was when I would see her again.

The rains fell as if they wanted to prevent me from completing my task in New Delhi. It drove in angled sheets that soaked me as I attempted to keep my duffles dry and hail a taxi to Connaught Circle. My driver asked permission to pull over twice from inability to see the road. I commended his prudence and then fell fast asleep, only to wake when we arrived at Britland Press. I had my driver wait while I went inside. It was as Adam stated; they knew exactly what to do. I was mildly surprised at how the small, erudite octogenarian publisher handled the pages. He carried them immediately to a back office and secured them in a safe like prized art. Perhaps it would be received that way in broader terms. I hoped so.