“How do you know she’s coming?”
“Mohammed Hashim called here last night. You remember that boy from her class in KIS. He was at your wedding. Muslim boy from Indonesia? With the wife wearing the head scarf. They had two small girls running around, remember?”
“Yes, yes, I know Mohammed,” Duncan said. “Why was he calling you?”
“He said it was urgent to get in touch with Grace. Something he needed to talk to her about. He mentioned a photo. I couldn’t follow exactly what it was about. But he kept saying it was very urgent, that she should call as soon as she landed. That is why I called your hotel, to tell you to get her to call him when you picked her up.” She paused. “He sounded very excited. I thought he was upset, to tell the truth. I asked him if there was any problem, but he said no, nothing to worry about.”
Did this have to do with the photo Grace had emailed him? She had said Mo had showed it to her. That was the photo of the woman Jotipala had said he knew. Strange, Duncan thought. But this could be some other photo. The question was, why was Grace coming here all of a sudden? It was not like her to make a sudden trip. She liked to plan things out.
“Ma,” he said. “I’m actually still in Galle. So I can’t pick Grace up. She’ll probably call from the airport when she gets there. I don’t have a phone number she can call me at . . .” Should he ask her to contact Bent? Something didn’t seem right, he thought. Why had Bent not conveyed the message that Duncan was leaving Colombo? “I’ll call back soon,” he said.
“Okay. I’ll tell her. Do you know when you’ll be back in Colombo?”
“Soon,” Duncan said. “I’ll call you soon, Ma.”
He hung up and paid the shopkeeper, who had been listening with unabashed curiosity. Duncan checked the time. They could hurry and get back to the house before the guard returned. But if they went back, he probably would not be able to get back out to make another call. What was this all about? Why was Grace coming? Did she not know he was down south? If she had known, she would have told her parents. Why would Bent not have informed her as he had promised?
The wind, blowing hard, was whipping Janie’s hair back. His own hair was sticky with the moisture in it.
Forget going back to the house, Duncan thought. He needed to get to Colombo, find out what was going on. He’d have to find a car.
One of the men who had been standing by the tuk-tuk was sitting inside it, now with a maroon shirt on. Duncan took Janie’s hand and went over to him. “Can you take us to that hotel?” He pointed to the white building in the distance.
“Come, come,” the man said as the tuk-tuk shuddered to life.
42
GRACE
Tuesday
The chatter of voices assailed Grace as soon as she exited through the airport door into the sticky humidity of the morning. The covered curb was already crowded with passengers and their families. She looked around at a blur of men in polyester shirts, women with their black hair in braids and buns and ponytails, children in fluffy nylon dresses, bare toes peeping from under lungis and saris and trousers, hard fiberglass suitcases in primary colors, and bulky plastic-wrapped packages tied with pink nylon string. She could smell car exhaust and the sharp reek of sweat. Several men approached her, though tentatively, as if they knew she would not be taking a taxi. “Taxi, miss?” “Going where, miss?” Ignoring them, she tramped down the curb. A middle-aged woman was hastening forward, holding a sign that said GRACE MC CLOUD. She was smartly dressed, in a beige short-sleeved shirt and a black skirt that flapped against her calves. Her shoulder-length hair was fashionably cut. The way she was clutching the sign gave her an anxious air. Grace stepped toward her.
“Are you . . . ,” the woman said.
“Grace McCloud,” Grace said. “And you are . . .”
“Please. Please come this way,” the woman said breathily. She hurried down the platform, gesturing for Grace to follow. People were calling out to greet arriving passengers. Porters were shouting as drivers tried to park, and cars were honking as others tried to edge back onto the road. Grace followed the woman, who kept looking back at her urgently. They were almost running, weaving between passengers and their greeters, past a series of cars parked by the curbside. At the very end of the covered area, a man in a dark uniform was waiting, Grace saw, next to a new-looking white minivan.
They were about forty feet away from the van when a dented blue Toyota sedan screeched diagonally into a curbside spot that was just being vacated by a jeep. Its trunk popped open. A sari-clad woman jumped out and grabbed Grace’s arm. Grace jerked back, an involuntary shriek escaping her lips.
“Get inside,” the woman hissed, pulling at Grace’s suitcase with one hand and pushing her toward the passenger door of the car with the other. As Grace resisted, horrified, the woman seized something from her hair bun and waved it at her. It was a gleaming brown rooster feather. “I’m Yak Adura,” she barked. “Get in the bloody car!”
The man who had been standing by the van was now running toward them, shoving people aside. Grace leapt into the car, jamming her carry-on onto her lap, and yanked the door shut. Yak Adura heaved Grace’s suitcase into the open trunk, slammed it shut, and darted nimbly around to the driver’s side, shouting in Sinhala, “That man is a thief! Stop him!”
Grace, looking back, saw the electrifying effect this had on the crowd. There was only one person running, and that was the uniformed man. Several bystanders leapt toward him, gripping his arms as he tried to wrestle free. The woman with the sign was nowhere to be seen. Yak Adura reversed the car, almost hitting passing traffic, and stepped on the gas. Turning back, Grace saw the man gesticulating and yelling at the crowd, an angry expression on his face.
Grace stared at the woman who was hunched over the wheel, concentrating on speeding forward. She was attractive, and in her midthirties, Grace guessed, with a round face and a chin that jutted forward. Her eyes were large and long lashed under straight, rather thick eyebrows. A small black birthmark nudged her lower lip. Her hair was wound into a smooth coil at the base of her neck, and small silver hoops adorned her ears. She was wearing a sleeveless red sari blouse and a nylon sari with a tie-and-dye pattern in white and shaded reds. None of this was what Grace had expected. Although the email message from Yak Adura had been in Sinhala, the phone conversation she’d had in English had not led her to expect a young woman in a sari. In the city, most young women nowadays only wore saris, if at all, to work or to special events. The athletic way this woman had hefted her suitcase, the way she had spoken, and the way she was driving also seemed at odds with the sari and the small stack of alternating red and silver bangles on her wrist. Maybe she was just stereotyping, Grace thought. She was too used to being in the US.
“Sorry, but how do I know you’re Yak Adura?” Grace said. “I mean, there was that other woman . . .”
“I sent you an email in Sinhala,” the woman said. “And then you called me, from the airport. I told you I would have a rooster feather.” She turned to Grace and smiled briefly. There was a hint of mischief in her smile, and it set Grace’s mind at rest. “Sorry about the melodramatic pseudonym. I wanted to get your attention. And the rooster feather gimmick,” she said. “It was the only thing on my bedside table when you called. I use it as a bookmark. Not something most people carry around, so seemed a good choice.” She jerked the steering wheel to avoid a car that changed lanes suddenly, her bangles clinking. “My name is Shalini. Shalini Samaraweera. Better than Yak Adura, no?” She craned her neck to read a large road sign that indicated the various roads permitted for tractors, cars, bullock carts, tuk-tuks, bikes, and pedestrians.
“So what happened back there? Who was that other woman?”
Shalini shrugged. “Don’t know, men. Probably someone Cinasat paid to do their dirty work.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Someone obviously knew you were coming. Besides me. You said you told some people, no? Your neighbor, your friends.”
“They’re not involved in anything!” Grace said. Involved in what, she didn’t even know.
“But they may have told someone else,” Shalini said. “These bloody people are everywhere, men. You were probably being watched. You don’t know the extent of this.” She swerved to avoid a car trying to pass. The engine sounded uneven, with occasional loud sputters interrupting its whir. They were driving at a good clip along an avenue pleasantly shaded by the trees that bordered it. Mesh fences secured the road on both sides in this airport area, which was impeccably maintained. Billboards here and there exhorted travelers to INVEST IN SRI LANKA.
“What exactly are we talking about?” Grace said. “I have no idea what’s going on. What about Duncan? My husband? Is he okay?”
“I’ll start from the begin . . .” Shalini suddenly looked alarmed. “Damn. That bloody van. Is that the van from the airport? Look, look back and see.”
Grace looked back. There was a white van gaining on them, but she couldn’t see the driver’s face. “I don’t know. Could just be another white van.”
“True. Wait, we can find out,” Shalini said. “Watch and see if it stops when I stop.” She pulled over onto the shoulder and paused with the engine gasping fitfully. The van passed them, and some distance ahead, it pulled to a stop. “Damn. See that?” She was silent for a moment. “Don’t have a choice. When we get off the expressway, we’ll stay on the big roads where it’s busy.” She accelerated, and the car shot forward with a jerk, belching a cloud of black smoke. As they passed the van, Grace saw the uniformed man watching them, his face impassive. The woman was sitting in the passenger seat with a cell phone to her ear, her neck craned forward to see them, her eyes wide. The van pulled out behind them.
“Why are they following us? What are we going to do?” she said.
“Just hope we don’t run out of petrol or break down.” Shalini looked anxiously at the dashboard where an indicator was blinking. “This bloody car is useless. That’s why I was late getting there. I broke down in Seeduwa and had to get a jump.”
They drove on, with Shalini’s eyes fixed as much on the van behind them as on the road ahead. “Where are we going?” Grace said.
“Trying to think. I was going to take you to where I’m staying, but now better not,” Shalini said. “Most of the evidence I’ve collected is there. I don’t want the place to get ransacked.” She glanced at Grace. “It might be time to go to the police.” She shook her head. “Problem is, you can’t be sure. Who is being paid off, who is to be trusted.”
“Is this about Duncan? My husband?”
“Not only him. The whole story, men,” Shalini said. She looked back at the van and frowned. “At this point, police may be safest. But who knows?”
“My uncle is a deputy inspector general,” Grace said. “We could go to him.”
Shalini looked sharply at Grace. “What’s his name?”
“Ragu Thangaraja.”
“Deputy inspector general? I don’t know him.”
“He only got into the position recently.”
“When?”
“Why does that matter? He’s my mother’s sister’s husband. I’ve known him all my life. We could go to my parents’ house in Colombo, and then we could call him.”
Shalini was silent, apparently considering the issue.
“These fellows may already be waiting at your parents’ house if they knew you were coming. And this bloody van is following us. What is your parents’ house like? Is there a gate, a wall? Are there a lot of people around, or is it out of the way?”
“They live in Colombo 4,” Grace said. “Gamini Lane. They’re at the end of the lane, right near Immaculate Heart Church. Not many people around usually. There’s a wall and a gate. But why are you asking? It’s not as if anyone’s going to come onto the property.”
Shalini snorted. “You really don’t know the scope of this, men,” she said.
“What is all this about?” Grace said. “I’m worried about my husband. His boss called me. He said Duncan had been kidnapped.”
“His boss? Bentley Hyland,” Shalini said, her lips pursed grimly. “Yes, I’m sure he said that.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s the one masterminding all this,” Shalini said.
“What! That’s ridiculous,” Grace said. “His daughter, Janie, was also kidnapped.”
Shalini’s head snapped toward her. “How do you know that?”
“Bent told me. She was with Duncan.”
Shalini frowned. “That can’t be. He must have been lying to you.”
“What the hell . . . what . . . Please, can you just explain what you know?”
Shalini looked in the mirror, tapping her fingers on the wheel agitatedly. “We have to get rid of this van before we can even decide where to go.” She swerved suddenly and exited the expressway.
“Where are you going?” Grace said, looking around, trying to identify the road. It looked like any other one in the area. Plantain trees grew thickly by the roadside, their broad leaves hanging down to the tangle of bushes beneath. Bunches of bright-orange king coconuts clustered in the palm trees. They passed a rickety lean-to with a thatched roof, where a man in a sarong hitched to his knees was laying out papaws, pineapples, and hands of bananas for sale.
“We’ll go to one of the small hotels,” Shalini said. “Then we can think about what to do to get rid of this van.” She pointed to a sign up ahead. “That one is fine.”
The hotel, whitewashed like all the rest of the nearby tourist places, was a low-slung, sprawling building with a tall traveler’s palm guarding the front entrance. It was one of the more down-to-earth hotels in the area. There were no liveried footmen to be seen outside. Shalini parked in an unpaved lot that had been cleared of coconut trees, adjacent to the hotel restaurant. A few seconds later, the white van followed and parked at the edge of the lot, facing away from them. “Don’t look at it,” Shalini instructed, gathering her sari pota around her waist. “Let’s go inside and see if they follow us in.”
Grace climbed out, hugging her purse. “Walk calmly,” Shalini said, and Grace slowed her pace, suppressing an urge to look over her shoulder. She heard two car doors slam shut.
They turned the corner. The wide concrete steps of the front entrance were ahead of them. “Wait a little, miss,” a male voice called out behind them in a tone that was too menacing for the words he used. Grace heard the sound of gravel scrunching.
The uniformed man was hurrying toward them, the woman a few steps behind.
Shalini grabbed Grace’s arm and propelled her forward. “We have to meet someone,” she called out over her shoulder.
“Wait, wait, miss,” the man said. “Miss’s husband said to pick miss up.”
Grace slowed her pace, but Shalini pulled at her arm. “He’s bullshitting,” she hissed. “Tell him you can go with him in half an hour. Tell him to wait here.”
“What? Why?” Grace said.
“Just do it. I’ll explain.”
Grace turned her head. The man was only yards away. “Sorry,” she said. “We’re late for a meeting. I can go with you when we come out. In half an hour.” She hurried forward, responding to Shalini’s tug on her arm.
Grace could hear the two people behind gaining on them. “Come on, Grace,” Shalini said loudly in English. “We’re already late.” They broke into a run, sending gravel flying. They sprinted toward the entrance and up the steps.
“What is going on?” Grace said, trying to catch her breath. She looked out through the glass door. The man and woman were talking at the foot of the steps, underneath the enormous paddle-shaped leaves of the traveler’s palm. The man was gesticulating, his face livid, and the woman was shaking her head.
Shalini was rummaging in the scuffed leather purse slung over her shoulder. She pulled out a five-hundred-rupee note that had seen better days. “Just had an idea,” she said, looking harried. “I’ll come back in ten minutes. You wait here. Don
’t go with them, whatever you do. If they try to get you to, make a big scene.”
“What . . . what do you . . . ,” Grace stuttered, but Shalini was already hurrying toward a porter in a red uniform who was loitering inquisitively nearby.
“Trust me. Just wait,” she called back to Grace. Grace heard her say to the uniformed porter, “There is a driver and a lady down there, by the steps. Can you make sure they wait right there? We’ll be out in half an hour.” She pressed the money into his hand. He looked down at his hand in amazement, and then strode purposefully out the front door.
Shalini was hurrying toward a sign at the end of the lobby that pointed the way to the restaurant, the silver-trimmed straps of her red slippers flashing under her sari hem.
Grace stood hesitantly in the middle of the lobby, her purse clutched to her side, confused by this series of events. None of it made sense. What was happening? Why did she have to stay here? She was to trust someone she had just met? What if the van driver was telling the truth, and Duncan had really sent him?
43
DUNCAN
Tuesday
The hotel had an affectedly casual beach cabin air, perhaps to compensate for being on the land side of the road, with no direct beach access. After talking to the man at the front desk, Duncan found out that they were at the outskirts of Galle. He asked for a car to Colombo.
While Janie rinsed the shells she’d collected in a small courtyard fountain, Duncan paced, trying to make sense of everything. Why was Grace coming to Sri Lanka so suddenly? Why hadn’t Bent told anyone he was going to the guesthouse? What about what Jotipala had said? It didn’t make sense. Why would Bent think Duncan would harm anyone? Was it possible that the guesthouse was not where Bent had intended to send him? Then who had sent him there? Where was Bent? Could Bent have been abducted himself? There were too many conflicting pieces in the puzzle. His head hurt, trying to figure out what was going on.
He looked at his watch. More than thirty minutes had passed since he’d ordered the car. He went over to the desk to check.
The Mask Collectors Page 24