The Virtuosic Spy 01 - Deceptive Cadence (11 page)

“Because of the other reason she’s famous—her husband. They’re not exactly separated, but they don’t see much of each other. Separate interests, to say the least. She sticks to Mahim, and he’s got the top floor of a high-rise on Marine Drive. His name is Pawan Kotwal, or as he’s more commonly known, Pawan-bhai. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him either? No, I guess not.” Sedgwick began to laugh—an unpleasant snicker that he made no attempt to control.

Scowling in distaste, Conor refused to indulge it with inquiry. Curtis Sedgwick’s physical appearance might have been a surprise, but in other respects, he was shaping up to fit the profile he’d been expecting.

“Sorry.” Sedgwick put a fist to his mouth in an exaggerated effort to smother his laughter. “I’m just thinking about the report I’ll be filing with London. Not only did their new boy wonder miss his first contact in country, he managed to offer his services to the wife of one of the biggest mafia dons in Mumbai.”

“A mafia don!” Conor began spluttering a skeptical protest but then stopped.

He allowed the tense muscles of his back to go limp while Sedgwick continued chortling next to him. Argument was pointless. It was true. Of course it was. He had traveled halfway around the world and arrived at a place that was feeling more like a new dimension of reality rather than any mere country, a place where the mouthwatering aroma of curry fought for air space alongside the pervasive smell of human excrement, and where a tiny old woman with a braided ponytail could fool you into thinking she was no more than she appeared.

It was a place that made briefing books look like the ramblings of some dotty English aunt.

A land of surprises.

W
HEN
THEY
ARRIVED
AT
THE
J
YOTI
A
PARTMENTS
ON
Malabar Hill, it was after four o’clock in the morning. The neighborhood was quiet, and Mumbai itself was at last moving into a brief respite between shifts. It was the transitional period common to all metropolitan centers of great size. The bass-note vibrations of the night had faded, and the hive-like buzz of early morning had not yet begun. They were moving through that small slice of time when the city descends—like a massive, restless organism—into fitful sleep.

The Jyoti was a fifteen-story “serviced apartments” complex constructed in a long, curving crescent, fronted by an expanse of land scattered with patches of sun-withered grass. Sedgwick explained the site had been selected because it afforded greater privacy and independence than a traditional hotel setting.

“And, frankly, it was cheaper,” he added, as the elevator reached the fifteenth floor. “It’s a pretty decrepit old building that’s scheduled for demolition, so it’s also half empty. Not the luxury package, sorry to say. Should be a nice view, though. In another year or two, people will be paying a fortune for it.”

The accommodation was indeed extremely modest. It was a large, cement-floored space with a closet-sized kitchenette, a slightly bigger bathroom, and an array of shopworn furniture. The whitewashed ceiling and walls bore evidence of water damage and mold, but the flat had one outstanding feature that more than compensated for its grim characteristics. The wall along its western side was made entirely of glass. It stretched from floor to ceiling with a folding door at one end leading out to a narrow balcony, and it looked out over the Arabian Sea. While Conor stood staring out at it, Sedgwick inspected the quarters and supplied a running commentary.

“They come in to clean and replace linens on some kind of schedule, but I don’t have a clue what it is, and even if they’d tell you, it would end up being something different. Looks like they delivered all the food I ordered—fruit, eggs, bread, marmalade, digestive biscuits.”

Sedgwick swiveled his head from the refrigerator, his face uncertain. “I didn’t know what Irish people eat. I just assumed it was the same as the English. Do you like marmalade and shit like that?”

Still at the windows experimenting with the folding doors, Conor nodded vaguely. “I pretty much eat whatever is put in front of me.”

“Dangerous habit in India.” Sedgwick slammed the refrigerator shut.

Having satisfied himself that everything was as it should be, he gave Conor the key along with the name and location of a restaurant where they would meet at nine o’clock that night.

“I know you’ve probably got that ‘early to bed, early to rise’ farmer thing going on,” he remarked sarcastically, “but most of the people you’ll need to get friendly with only come out at night, so you’ll have to get used to a different rhythm here.”

Conor gave a thin smile. “I’m sure I’ll adjust.”

“Good.” Sedgwick’s eyes swept over him in a final, skeptical stare, and then he left.

Conor thought about unpacking, but then he thought again. Kicking off his boots, he stretched out on top of the bed. He had time enough to wonder whether the mattress might actually be filled with cement before crashing into deep, insensible sleep.

10

I
T
WAS
CLEARLY
A
RESTAURANT
—
THERE
WAS
NO
DISPUTING
THAT
— the question was whether it was the right restaurant. There wasn’t a name to be seen anywhere on its exterior, and the immediate surroundings provided no helpful data to determine his location. No visible street sign and no numbers. He’d already been inside once, and after investigating the restaurant’s dimly lit rooms, had confirmed that Sedgwick was not in any of them. Conor stood in the crowded street looking helplessly at the building, while the man at his elbow offered an animated defense of his navigational skills.

“This is the place. I am telling you absolutely, sir. For eleven years, I am guide in Mumbai. I know all these places. You are asking me to take you to Chole House restaurant. This is Chole House. It is not a nice restaurant, but it is the one you asked for.”

“Well, I hope you’re right, Bishan Singh,” Conor said. “Because if it isn’t, I might as well get the next plane home. I’ll never live it down.”

The thought that he might have arrived at the wrong place for the second time in twenty-four hours was unbearable, especially since in all other respects he had managed his first full day on the subcontinent with admirable self-sufficiency.

He had cooked his breakfast on the kitchenette’s pump- action kerosene stove without blowing himself up; he had mastered a new method of washing, using the multiple spigots and buckets supplied in the bathroom; and when he had ventured out to explore the city, he had succeeded in choosing an intelligent, trustworthy guide from among the dozen clamoring to offer their services.

He hadn’t intended to hire a guide, but it had quickly become apparent that it was easier to pick one rather than combat the unflagging advances of all the others. He’d selected Bishan Singh—a large, solidly built Sikh with a crimson turban—on the basis of his brilliantly white starched shirt and the fact that he had his own car.

He had a deferential but cheerful, self-assured demeanor, and once Conor had made it clear that he was not interested in procuring drugs, women, or young boys, the two of them had passed an agreeable afternoon together visiting the main tourist attractions.

Bishan was an amiable companion, and Conor believed him to be reliable, but the dilemma of the Chole House was putting a strain on their budding friendship. His uncertainty caused his guide’s face to stiffen with a dignified, stony expression of injured pride.

“It isn’t that I don’t believe you,” Conor said. “I’m just wondering if . . . well, if maybe there is more than one. Is this the only Chole House restaurant in Mumbai?”

“In all Mumbai?” Bishan’s thick eyebrows shot up toward his turban. “It could be or might not be, but you said also Ganesh Bazar. This is the only Chole House in Ganesh Bazar.”

“Okay. Fair point.”

He glanced around the square, searching for additional clues, and when his eyes returned to Bishan, he looked past his shoulder and saw Sedgwick ambling toward them, wearing an unmistakable smirk.

“Ah, sure you’re the real cute hoor, aren’t ye,” Conor crooned, watching the agent’s approach. “Just wanting to make me sweat.”

Sedgwick dodged between two auto-rickshaws and came to stand between the two of them. “Sorry I’m late,” he announced, watching Conor’s face.

“Yeah, no worries,” Conor replied. “We just got here as well.”

Sedgwick laughed and made a cursory study of the tall, muscular Sikh. “Make a new friend?”

“I did, actually. This is Bishan Singh. Bishan Singh, this is my . . . this is Sedgwick.”

Unsmiling, Bishan gave a small, curt bow and then turned a questioning gaze back to Conor. He gave a quick nod.

“Right. We’re just finishing up here.”

“I’ll meet you inside.” Sedgwick turned and headed for the entrance of the restaurant. “Come to the room in the back,” he called over his shoulder. “And don’t pay him too much. He’ll lose respect for you.”

Conor took a wad of rupee notes from his pocket, and after a quick calculation, handed Bishan what he thought was fair.

The guide looked at him with grave concern. “Sir, I do not like this place. And this man, how do you know him? He has a cunning face. He does not look like your friend. I am not happy leaving you with him. I will wait here until you return.”
 

“No, it’s fine.” Conor grinned. “He’s a bit of a prick, but he’s not going to hurt me. I’ll be fine. Thanks for your concern, though. If I ever do need protection, you’ll be my first call.”
 

Bishan nodded soberly. He fingered the bundle of rupee notes in his hands, and with a small shake of his head, handed half of them back. “It is because I do respect you,” he said, gripping Conor’s shoulder in a gesture of farewell.

Picking his way through the restaurant to the room at the back, Conor could appreciate Bishan’s reluctance—the place had an unsavory atmosphere. The series of dingy, half-lit rooms that opened one on to another were small and cramped, and the close, humid air was made even more oppressive by the stale odor of spent cooking oil that drifted overhead in a greasy vapor.

He found Sedgwick in a booth in the very rear of the last room and slid into the seat across from him. A man, perhaps in his early twenties, sat next to Sedgwick against the wall. He was painfully thin—a long, thin frame topped by a long, equally thin face—with a swath of black hair that hung limp across his forehead. His protruding brown eyes gave him the look of a trapped animal whose initial terror has subsided to taut watchfulness. Sedgwick did not introduce him.

He ordered beer for the three of them, along with plates of
chiwda
. When the dry snacks and large, sweating bottles had been placed on the table, he poured the beer into his glass and raised it to offer a facetious toast.

“Knowing how things work over at the Fort, I’m sure nobody bothered to congratulate you on completing the training, so let me be the first.”

“Thanks. I did get a handshake, but that was about it.” Conor shot a pointed glance at the unidentified companion, and Sedgwick dismissed the implied question with a shrug.

“Don’t worry about him. He doesn’t speak English. We’ll get to him later. Anyway, maybe they didn’t let you in on it, but they were certainly celebrating your graduation,” Sedgwick said. “Not many opportunities for that since 9/11, but they’re practically peeing themselves over you, dude.”

“Are they?” Conor took a sip of beer and tilted his head with polite interest, refusing the bait. He would hear the story eventually. It was clearly one Sedgwick wanted to tell. The silence didn’t last long.

“Quite a surprise for them too, since at first they didn’t even want you there. Before you showed up, opinion was divided between those who thought you’d be a spindly, weak- chinned musician with oh-so-delicate hands and the ones who were sure you’d be a knuckle-dragging cretin with the barnyard still stuck on your boots. The common link was that both groups thought you were going to be a useless waste of time for them.”

Conor had to chuckle at that; the characterization rang true. It was a clever depiction of the class-conscious divide that existed among the Fort Monckton officers, and it helped explain the startled expressions he’d so often encountered during his first few weeks of training.

“Being Irish didn’t help either, I imagine. That would have been another point of shared annoyance.”

“Yeah. I’ve never understood that,” Sedgwick said. “Shit, everyone else likes the Irish.”

“Long story.” Conor poured more beer into his glass. “Are you suggesting I turned out better than they expected?”

“So they say.” Sedgwick’s face became rigid. “Nice for them, I guess. Gives them fresh hope. Recruits often don’t perform as well as their officers anticipate. Then again, the recruits don’t often anticipate what the officers will ask them to perform. Hard to know who’s at fault, since the game requires everyone to be lying to everyone else, most of the time.”

Conor regarded the hardened face with a cool gaze and remained silent. He wondered if the agent was blowing off steam or was trying to draw him into more complicated territory.

With a mirthless huff of laughter, Sedgwick sat up and reached across the table for the bottle. The movement exposed the inside of his right forearm and revealed an extensive network of scars. He saw Conor’s involuntary glance, and with a tight smile, rolled his arm over and planted it on the table between them.

“Yeah, I figured they’d tell you about that.” His tone was nonchalant, but his faded gray eyes flashed in anger. “Go on, take a closer look, why don’t you? I don’t mind. Maybe you’d like to send a report home. Tell them whether they look fresh or not. What do you think, Rafferty? Think I’m going to screw them over again?”

After a long pause, Conor gave an impassive shrug. “You tell me. To be honest, as long as you don’t screw me over, I don’t much give a damn.”

An unusual change passed over Sedgwick’s face, an almost elastic rearrangement of features that—for just an instant— made him look boyishly quizzical. Before Conor could even be sure he had seen it, it was gone. Sedgwick rubbed a hand over the lower half of his face and narrowed his eyes. “You are a cool customer, aren’t you? They said that about you, too. A ‘talent for repose,’ they called it. That, and a gift for languages, a nearly photographic memory, superior balance and athletic ability, and you can apparently shoot the balls off a fly at a hundred yards. You’re an intelligence director’s wet dream. It’s a tricky line of work, though, sonny boy. You’d better go slow in deciding how good you want to get at it.”