by Fritz Galt
The conversation left Lt. General Saleem wondering if he had explored all the opportunities the information had presented him.
That evening, he would face his same dour wife again. And she would once again inform him of how extremely displeased she was at giving up Harrods for the hardships of Islamabad.
He might have at least gotten her an American refrigerator out of the deal.
Abu Khan heard someone rapping on the grass hut’s door.
He rolled away from the prone blonde form beside him and looked up.
In the opening over the door, he saw a bright sky above coconut, mango and banana trees. Through the grass weave in the door, he could make out the rotund form of an old man standing there.
“Swamiji,” he said. “What is it?”
Swami J.P. Nilayam took the question as an invitation and entered the single-room structure. He nodded toward the sleeping woman on the floor and said in a low tone so as not to wake her, “Isn’t she good?”
“Yes, but I’d like to try the American next.”
“She’ll be ready for men soon,” Swamiji assured him. “I received a phone call this morning.”
“Who was it?” Abu sat up naked and wiped the sleep from his eyes. The morning was already hot and humid.
“It was the girl’s father. He assured us that Congress will fund the research. The money should flow into Rajiv’s pocket next fiscal year.”
“Next fiscal year?” Abu spat out. His face had turned red. “We need it now. I should have talked with him myself.”
“Well, you may talk with someone else face to face. We will have a visitor soon from the American Consulate.”
“What? I told you not to tell her father where we were located.” He could barely contain his anger.
“I wanted him to see our research. Let the Americans come and see our good works.”
Abu snorted and slipped into a pair of shorts. He stood up, zipped up his fly and strode into the jungle compound. Pointing back over his shoulder at the woman, he said, “Send her to town to pick up the U.S. Government scum.”
The guru looked at the lean, muscular form relaxing in the shadows. “You send us good material,” he said.
“I made some European contacts in Afghanistan,” Abu said. “You just have to work the networks correctly.”
At first bin Laden had offered to supply everything but men. He didn’t need bin Laden’s help to assemble troops. Abu saw himself as a born leader, having already culled through the ranks of terrorists available in Afghanistan and enlisted those he needed.
“I’ll let you wake her up,” Abu said, “while I visit my brother.”
He turned and left as the rotund guru unwrapped his dhoti loincloth and crouched down to the mat beside the woman.
Abu wandered past a group bowed in meditation. A leader chanted into a microphone and a group followed along with ringing, surprisingly youthful voices.
He padded barefoot over palm fronds toward the edge of the jungle compound. Through the flowering bushes he heard glass vibrating, a puttering compressor and finally the angry hum of thousands of trapped mosquitoes.
Mick had plenty of errands to run before flying south to India’s swampland. And fortunately, the plague hadn’t yet stamped out entrepreneurs in Bombay.
First he needed a ticket. He stopped by an air-conditioned Indian Airlines office and booked an afternoon flight to Trivandrum, Kerala’s capital. He asked for a recommendation on hotels in Trivandrum, and the female travel agent suggested a hotel on Kovalam Beach, just south of the city. No other hotels accepted reservations, so he took her advice and reserved a room at the Kovalam Ashok Beach Resort.
Secondly, he needed proper clothing for the steamy climate. At a hat store, he settled on a white pith helmet, not his style, but practical. Along Fashion Street, an endless strip of clothing stalls selling the overflow of Bombay’s immense fabric industry, he found a rack he liked of ready-made shirts that were both rugged and elegant. A shoe stand nearby rounded out his attire with a new pair of waterproof hiking boots.
The next item to purchase was a knapsack. This proved harder to find. The driver suggested several sports shops that specialized in outfitting travelers, but both had closed down their businesses. In a final effort, Mick wandered the stalls of Crawford Market and found the near-perfect sack, however the bag was designed to hang from only one shoulder.
“Both shoulders,” Mick requested. “Do you have a tailor?”
“Yes, we are having good good tailor. Coming back after some time.”
Mick nodded and left.
Next he headed for Bank of America where his credit card allowed him to withdraw a maximum of twenty thousand rupees, a king’s ransom of five hundred dollars.
He popped into the Taj’s bookstore and bought a detailed map of Kerala State and street maps of Kerala’s two largest cities: Cochin and Trivandrum.
Next he needed a weapon. For that, his driver headed for the congested Kalbadevi neighborhood and a hole-in-the-wall antique shop. There Mick found exactly what he was looking for, a cutlery set from Rajasthan. He ran a hand over the long piece, then pulled on the handle and exposed a thin, gleaming blade in one hand and a pointed fork shaped like a cobra’s tongue in the other. He bought the set and slipped it into the pocket of his khaki trousers.
Then he returned to Crawford Market to pick up his knapsack. The shop owner was sewing the final stitches.
As he waited for the sack, Mick wandered among the fruit and vegetable vendors with their goods neatly piled behind them on high shelves. Meanwhile, a boy followed him with a large flat basket balanced on his head. Mick turned toward the stalls of imported goods and handed the boy items as he bought them: nut bars, hand wipes, soap and shampoo, a cord of rope, a flashlight and batteries.
He returned to the leather merchant. The knapsack fit perfectly. Mick paid his basket boy, filled the knapsack and walked out of the cavernous marketplace ready to tackle the jungle.
Dragging into the embassy at noon, Alec found Cal Mumphries once again standing in his office. The man’s suit still looked rumpled, and he had dark circles under his eyes.
Cal blurted out his first question before Alec could even close the door. “So yesterday you told me the attacks on the various islands of the Indian Ocean were coordinated by an Islamist group.”
“Still true,” Alec said, removing his suit coat and hanging it on a hook on the back of his door.
“Let me finish. And you said that the key players used mercenaries, but you didn’t know who the ultimate leader was.”
“Now I do.”
“Okay. Take it from there.”
Alec sat down and mentally composed his response. He knew that his exact wording would be relayed directly to the President of the United States. “There is an Islamist militant preparing a Muslim takeover of the Indian government. I don’t know how he intends to achieve this. What we’re seeing here in the smaller island nations are other terrorists capitalizing on his plan because they foresee disruption of the Suez Canal and new shipping lanes passing through here.”
“So what you’ve got down here is just a bunch of pirates on the high seas.”
“Making use of the talents of Muslim extremists.”
“So there’s no religious or terrorist dimension.”
“Actually there is. They may be paving the way for an Islamic Indian Ocean where certain islands and cities will be the world’s ports of entry, much like Hong Kong used to be the world’s back door into China.”
“With India being the new China and islands like Mauritius being the new Hong Kong.”
“Exactly.”
“So now the focus turns to India,” Cal said. “Who is behind the coup plot there and exactly how does he intend to pull it off?”
“I need more time,” Alec said.
“You’ve got one day.”
“I need two.”
“All right. But begin packing your bags. Your Washington assignment starts i
mmediately.”
Alec fingered a seashell on his desk, a souvenir from a diving expedition off Mauritius.
“You’re not going to find out who’s behind the plot in India?” Cal seemed dumbfounded.
“Not during the day.”
“So I take it you work at night?”
“Yup.”
Chapter 25
Mick landed at five p.m. at Trivandrum Airport in the capital of Kerala, near the southern tip of India.
He would spend the night at the beach resort, then begin searching in earnest for the Temple of the Highest Peace, the cult that supposedly held Congressman Butler’s daughter Keri and the malaria researcher named Dr. Rajiv Khan.
He stepped off the plane and was met by still, humid air simmering in the mid-nineties.
His was the only plane on the ground. It was a short walk over the tarmac with its large squares of concrete sealed together by tar. He followed the other passengers inside. Most were vacationing Europeans stranded in India when the epidemic hit. He had no checked luggage and walked straight past the baggage belt.
Stepping out the other side of the terminal, he scanned his transportation options.
Bicycle rickshaws, motorized trishaws and old rounded cream-colored Ambassador taxis waited for passengers just outside the terminal.
“Going my way?” an attractive blonde said, approaching from the terminal. She had a mild German accent.
Mick looked her over. She already had a deep tan, so she wasn’t in Kerala for the sun. “Where are you going?” he asked.
She faced him squarely, her eyebrows involuntarily lifting upon seeing him straight on. “I’m going to Kovalum.”
“Same here,” he said. “Shall we share a cab?”
She nodded and looked at the single Ambassador before them. “I guess we don’t have much choice.”
The Ambassador was manufactured in Calcutta, situated in the most distant state from Kerala. It was surprising to see one parked in the shade of the southern Indian jungle. On second thought, the two states shared a common political and economic philosophy: Marxism. Why not share products?
“You first,” Mick said, and held the door open for the mysterious woman.
Her slim body with broad shoulders, no bra and overly tight pants slid along the back seat. Mick jumped in beside her, his head glancing off the rounded car roof.
He smoothed his hair back into his ponytail and told the driver, “We’re going to the Kovalum Ashok Beach Resort.”
The woman nodded absently as she looked out the window, her fingers nervously tapping her lips.
The taxi started up, and they bounced through puddles left in the dirt by a recent shower.
It was time to get a handle on this easily made acquaintance. “Do I know you from Bombay?” he ventured.
She shook her head, but offered no information.
He had a difficult time keeping his eyes off her bobbing breasts, but if the woman wanted her privacy, he had plenty of other things to distract him. He still considered himself a married man, and therefore faithful. And although, he hadn’t had much opportunity for dalliances, he hadn’t sought them out.
The ten-mile trip to the hotel was an eyeful in all respects. The road followed the perimeter of the airport and then headed south through the outskirts of town. Hundreds of huts lined the route, each leaning from a recent wind. Their walls were constructed of woven palm leaves; their roofs, thatched with straw. In front of the huts, chickens and goats ran among innumerable naked children.
The woman seemed to recoil at the overpopulation and squalor.
The highway south was a single lane built on a wide roadbed. On both sides of the road, plantation-style houses sat behind low walls separated from other bungalows by marshy grass, coconut palms and banana groves.
Black, gray, and white water buffalo wandered at large. They grazed on the vegetation until it looked like a recently mowed golf course.
At one busy street corner, an amplifier blared music, red flags waved and the hammer and sickle were on prominent display. Political recruitment stations, Mick guessed. Handing out leftist leaflets must have earned decent pay.
At every turn of the road, as it wound around sand dunes and rocky outcroppings, he spotted multiple palm fronds propped up on end. In the shade of each sunbaked frond squatted a man or woman chipping away at a boulder with a hammer and sharp rock and bare hands. Trucks had dumped heaps of these large rocks, and presumably people were paid a set fee to turn them into gravel.
Transport in Kerala seemed mainly by foot, followed in order of popularity by bicycle, bus, ox, trishaw, truck and taxi. He saw very few private cars.
The taxi followed a bus with its side door swinging open. Two men hung from the door itself, smiling and enjoying the breeze. Mick waited for them to fly off on the next bump. And the taxi would polish them off. But it didn’t happen.
“They’re poor,” the woman said. “Yet this is not poverty.”
“If you sit under a tree long enough, a banana will fall in your lap. It’s not real work, but nature provides. It kept Castro going.”
“You’re not a believer?”
“You don’t see me waving a red flag,” he said.
She turned away and didn’t respond. Maybe she was from the former East Germany.
The Kovalam Ashok Beach Resort came into view. It was a white structure recently dynamited into the rocks of a headland, with ocean waves frothing at the bottom of the cliff.
If the woman were there to revel in communism, she surely couldn’t have picked a more opulent hotel.
As the cab pulled to a halt, Mick extended a hand toward her. “My name’s Mick,” he said. “I guess we’ll be seeing each other around the resort.”
“Lena,” she said, and graced him with an indifferent glance through half-open eyelids. Either she was on drugs or it was a poor imitation of Marlene Dietrich.
As she offered her limp hand, her cracked, unpainted lips parted in a shrewd smile.
That evening, the sun burst at the last moment from under a bank of clouds before it would plop into the Indian Ocean.
Mick stood on the balcony of his hotel room feeling the sun’s warm rays and the ocean breeze and listening to the roar of surf washing over the rounded shoals below. Somehow the sunset seemed nicer, brighter and more immediate than in Bombay.
Just a short airplane hop over the horizon lay his daughter, perhaps feeling the final warmth of the day, a time bomb ticking away in her tiny body.
A Muslim prayer call rose from somewhere in the green hills behind him.
Soon, a strolling musician singing “Felis Navidad” with a British accent drowned out the prayer. Below Mick at “deck level” beside the hotel’s Yoga meditation center, customers began gathering at the popular Chinese restaurant.
He closed his eyes and turned his plan over in his mind.
He needed information and had found nothing at the hotel, despite his querying the concierge and staff. Few seemed to understand what he was asking for, and fewer still, in their broken English, could tell him anything about the Temple of the Highest Peace.
The next day, he would have to hit the streets.
U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations Lucius Ford was stewing in his First Class seat for some time as their flight neared New York’s JFK Airport.
After several glasses of Chablis, Natalie was finally bold enough to tackle some of the bigger questions that confronted her.
Before her departure from Geneva to JFK, she had been worried that the U.S. Immigration Service would reject her because her passport bore recent entry and exit stamps from India, now under quarantine by the U.S.
That problem could be easily resolved because, like many diplomats, she carried two passports. She had entered and departed India on her black-covered diplomatic passport, which bore her visa and entry stamp. She also possessed a blue-covered tourist passport as required of American citizens traveling abroad. Diplomats often carried tourist passports
for personal travel to enter countries such as France that didn’t require visas for tourists, but did for diplomats.
At the airport in Geneva, Natalie decided she might not need Lucius’ UN protection to smuggle her into the United States. That would be her fallback if the blue passport failed to work for some reason.
So she had handed Lucius her black passport to carry to the United States for her.
“Is this all you want me to do?” he had asked.
“That’s all. Hand it back to me after U.S. Immigration.”
“May I ask you why this is necessary?”
She had put a finger to her lips, and he nodded. He owed her a favor. A big one.
The blue tourist passport had no entry or departure stamps for India and would easily get her past Immigration. All she needed to do was to hand in a false Immigration form stating that she had not been to India.
She retrieved the form, a small slip of paper with her signature at the bottom. She had checked “No” at the question about having been to India in the past year.
But should she really go through with her deception? Surely if she carried the damn malaria, she could be the next Typhoid Mary. If a single mosquito bit her, surely it would transmit the disease to other people it bit, who in turn would be bitten by other mosquitoes, thus bringing death and suffering to countless Americans.
She had to believe that her actions in the U.S. would bring a halt to the virulent disease and, in fact, save millions of lives. She had to ask herself if Mariah’s life was the only one she truly cared about. By following her maternal concerns, she would put the lives of millions in jeopardy. When it came down to it, she couldn’t put a finger on her real motives.
She closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding. She could only hope that the disease wasn’t coursing through her veins.
Lucius glanced her way. He seemed on the verge of blurting out a question.