by Aimee E. Liu
“I’m aware of that,” Lawrence said dryly. “They’ve a rather inflated—and immaculate—view of themselves when it comes to Australia, as well, you know.”
“I have never been to Australia.” Akbar leaned forward and helped himself to one of the lamb pasties. He used his tongue to retrieve the pale crumbs of crust that caught in his mustache and let the cat lick his fingertips.
Akbar not only had never been to Australia but evidently had never considered that the land down under might have a political identity apart from Britain’s. Lawrence let the idea percolate as they ate, then said, “I think what fascinates me most about the Game is the role of men like Andrew Dalgleish and Alexander Gardiner, who took the other approach—”
“Who went native,” Akbar said.
“Yes.”
“You find that romantic, do you? When one’s identity merges into these cultural borders?”
“I’m not sure whether it’s a matter of identity or affinity.”
“You must find Joanna’s girl Kamla most romantic, then,” Akbar said. “I do not disagree. In fact, I began working on this thesis soon after you all came to see me. Imagine, a Tungan Sikh with blue eyes! Perhaps she is my muse!”
“I have a feeling that one day Kamla’s going to put us all to shame,” Lawrence said.
“And why is that?”
“In my opinion these border crossings result in a kind of strength—wisdom, if you will—that the rest of us can’t comprehend. I’m inclined to think purity is vastly overrated.”
“And yet you are in love with Joanna, are you not? You do not choose for yourself to cross this fundamental frontier. And this, I think, is why men such as Gardiner and Dalgleish must fascinate you.” Akbar gently turned the cat out of his lap.
Lawrence put his hand to his neck, felt the heat of his skin. In a flood of shame, he remembered making love to Joanna in the same room with Kamla, and later on Milne’s houseboat, later still within earshot of Simon singing the songs Lawrence and Aidan had sung as they marched through the war. Aidan, who was himself born straddling this frontier.
“I feel the need for something a bit stronger,” Akbar announced. He went to a cupboard in the corner and came back brandishing a bottle of Russian vodka.
“I thought Muslims were teetotalers,” said Lawrence. “Especially Muslims with ulcers.”
“I thought Aussies were drunken louts.” Akbar poured into their empty coffee cups and drank to both their health. He winced as he swallowed.
Lawrence said, “Joanna told me the first ayah she hired in Delhi poured gin into Simon’s water glass thinking it was her own.”
Akbar turned his wire-rimmed lenses appraisingly. “Did Joanna fire her?”
“Mmm. I believe that was the first and last ayah for Simon.” Lawrence examined the bottle’s label. Stalingrad. “I prefer gin, myself.”
“A bit too British for my blood.”
“I thought you and the Brits were boon companions. Didn’t you study in England?”
“I did indeed.” Akbar smoothed his palm down the front of his sweater, lingering on the thin swell of his stomach.
“Vodka’s rather an acquired taste as well,” Lawrence said. “Especially firewater like this stuff.”
“Travel encourages such acquisitions.”
“Along with curios and antiquities.”
“And friends.” Akbar raised his cup again, and this time waited for Lawrence to join him. “To friends.”
After a lengthy silence Lawrence asked, “Did you consider Alice James a friend?”
His host chewed on his mustache. “Of course,” he said at last, and lit a cigarette.
“A useful one?”
Akbar blew a smoke ring. “Watch this.” He took another puff and added a trail of dots so it looked as if a comic strip balloon was rising from his mouth. “You like tricks. You can do wonderful things with smoke.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“I detect a note of disapproval.”
“American Indians used smoke signals to send messages over long distances.”
“Ah, yes,” said Akbar. “Smoke and mirrors.”
“Alice James was your Indian. And Tot as well, I think.”
Two fans of short distinct lines appeared at the outer corners of Akbar’s black eyes. He leaned forward, suppressing a cough. “Amusing.”
“You acquired your taste for vodka in Moscow?” asked Lawrence.
“I would say, more likely Leningrad. I spent some months there before the war. The collection of Central Asian antiquities at the Hermitage is exceptional.”
“So I’ve heard.” Lawrence waited for Akbar to regain his breath. “Why’d you send Joanna in?”
“‘Send’ is a bit emphatic, don’t you think?”
“You planted the thought. You showed her the map. You all but gave her the same marching orders you gave Alice James.” He watched his voice. Words aside, this was not an accusation. “You told her about Alice James.”
“I merely told Joanna the truth as I knew it. I did not read her mind. I only guessed at it. To be told that a husband has died… She was understandably distraught, but that error was not mine.”
“Whose was it?”
“Ask your American friends.”
“Why would they tell her Aidan was dead if they knew he wasn’t on the plane?”
“They will say, I am quite certain, that it was an honest mistake. Perhaps it was.”
“An inexcusable blunder, you mean.” Lawrence felt the heat again climbing the back of his neck. “I can hardly believe they were so stupid.”
“Not many women are as tenacious as Joanna.”
“The evidence suggests that Alice was equally tenacious, yet you were afraid Aidan would stop her before she got through.”
The firelight deepened the hollows in Akbar’s face. He watched Lawrence without replying.
“Who did stop her?” Lawrence asked.
“We didn’t think they would dare to harm an American,” Akbar said. “Especially not someone like Alice.”
Lawrence heard the subtle shift in Akbar’s voice, like a gate sliding open. He asked quietly, “What does that mean?”
Akbar gazed into the flames. “Alice was a special case. A man’s woman, if you understand. Perhaps they would have tried to abduct her, but never to kill her. This was my thinking. I was wrong.”
“They.”
“You are the master of the Game, are you not, my friend?”
“You think Weller and his Kazakh goons targeted her?”
Silence.
“Was she your recruit?”
Akbar emptied his cup in a single swallow and hurled it into the hearth. The shattering of clay on stone reverberated up the wide chimney. “It didn’t matter which of us she was working for,” he said finally. “She was exceptional. She should not have died.”
So Alice was Akbar’s border-crossing. Or would have been. Lawrence decided to adjust the subject.
“What do you know about Douglas Freeman?”
Akbar looked at him sharply. “The American.”
“I heard a rumor he was captured in Kazakhstan.”
“He was well trained.”
“He didn’t talk?”
“He escaped.”
“I don’t imagine you know where he is now?”
A log split, the two halves spraying embers up the chimney. “Is it really Douglas Freeman you wish to discuss?” Akbar asked.
Lawrence smiled. “All right, then. What happened to Aidan Shaw?”
“We rescued him.”
The two men’s eyes met. “Go on,” Lawrence said.
“You understand, I use the word in the most general sense.”
“I understand.”
“I did not know this when you and Joanna came to Srinagar for Simon. I did not mislead you.” Akbar removed his glasses and rubbed the bulge of his nose. “It was several months before I learned that there was an American in Ili Territory. He’d been wound
ed in the explosion. Some of our rebels were in the area.”
“Following Aidan and Alice.”
“No.” Akbar stretched his hands to the waning fire. “They were doing reconnaissance on Osman. Of course, had they all crossed paths earlier, everything might have been different. It is difficult to be certain… However, I do not believe that land mine was intended for Alice and Joanna’s husband. This was Mr. Weller’s mistake.”
“Your side buried Alice and took Aidan with them,” Lawrence said. And in the process Aidan dropped that photo of Simon—a message to Joanna that he was alive.
“This is my understanding.”
“Then what?”
“He was taken to hospital in Alma-Ata.”
“Why over the border?”
“He was badly injured. It was the closest hospital—that is, for our side.”
Lawrence smiled ironically, recalling Aidan’s presumptive motive for accepting the mission. To prove his loyalty. “So Aidan fell into the trap meant for your Reds, and they in turn saved his life.”
Akbar didn’t answer.
“What were his injuries?”
“I know only that it was some months before he could walk.”
Lawrence took a deep breath. “Where is he now?”
“Now I have told you everything I know. And none of it is official.” Akbar got to his feet and stood looking down on Lawrence by the dying firelight.
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because you asked. Because my information is too stale to be any longer relevant or reliable. Because I am now out of the Game.” Akbar pressed a hand against his stomach. “My days, as they say in the West, are numbered. Anyway, it is clear to me that you are as disappointed in the outcome of all of this as I am. So much time chasing facts, my friend, and still so little truth.”
2
Joanna, he wrote. I’m a chastened man. It was wrong of me to press you. I realize that now. I’ll be back in Delhi by week’s end. Not sure how long I’ll stay, but I must see you…
Joanna frowned, folded the letter, and returned it to her skirt pocket. She nursed her drink and stared across the sunswept lawn. With its white-clothed tables and glittering service, the Imperial still reeked of the Raj. The gentry queuing up for the luncheon buffet would have felt right at home in the time of Victoria. Yellow-haired women in long white dresses. Balding men with ruddy complexions and pocket handkerchiefs. Laughing. Embracing. Tendering plates to brown-faced men done up like birds in fluted red turbans and fitted white waistcoats. On which side of that table would each of them stand? Aidan? Lawrence? Herself? Was it possible that, in the end, this whole nightmare would come down to this one fundamental question?
More than a month had passed since her visit to the Chinese embassy. When she telephoned last week, Chou had warned her to be patient. He said he would contact her as soon as he heard anything. But she should be circumspect. Aidan was under Chinese protection. He—Chou—was acting out of sympathy, but neither he nor the Party leaders wished this to become a diplomatic incident. There must be no intrusion from her government. Did she understand? She must not call again. And she must tell no one.
No one.
She closed her eyes. Where was Bertie Solomon? They were supposed to meet at noon, and it was already half past.
Not that she was one to judge. Three days ago she had left a girl sitting in jail overnight because she forgot to send Vijay to sign for her. Hari finally insisted she take a week off. So here she was, free for lunch in the middle of a clear, sunny Tuesday, the children busy at school, and Nagu and Vijay covering her other so-called responsibilities. Not even the distraction of work could disguise the fact of her powerlessness now.
Bertie stepped through the lobby doors and out onto the terrace. Black-lensed sunglasses, white straw hat ringed with fake strawberries, and fleshy brown arms jiggling braceleted charms. Bertie was easily twenty pounds overweight and gloried in every one of them.
“Joanna!” she cried, charging across the lawn. “Why are you hiding way over here?”
She dropped into the other lawn chair, fanning her face, and immediately slipped her feet from their black patent pumps. Deep marks scored the skin along her instep. She flexed her naked toes. “At least you’ve found some shade. I will never adjust to this climate. Forty degrees at night, and ninety at noon! Some December. Waiter! Tonic water, please. Do you know if the ice is made with boiled water? Are you positive? All right, then. Yes, with ice. Thanks… Joanna, are you all right?”
Joanna hesitated. This was a friend. “Just a little tired.” She picked up her drink. Her own tonic was laced with gin. “Thanks for coming.”
Bertie smiled. Relaxed. “I’m glad you called.”
“I’ve been meaning to for weeks. I wanted to thank you for getting your article published in the States. We’ve received over five hundred dollars since summer.”
“Good old Temple Isaiah. My congregation back in Great Neck. I knew they’d come through.”
“Well, it’s making a real difference. Last week we installed a new stove in the kitchen, and next month three girls are heading off to boarding school. All because of you.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m only the reporter, Joanna. You’re the miracle worker.” She smiled a little too emphatically. “How’s Kamla?”
“Oh. Perfect. Straight As. She hardly stops reading long enough to sleep.”
“You should be very proud,” Bertie said, again pressing down on the corners of the words as if Joanna needed convincing. The black lenses concealed her eyes, but Joanna could feel her inspection.
“Actually, that’s the other reason I called. I want to explain about that night at the maidan—”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I do, though. I know you saw what happened, and I’m so ashamed of snapping like that. I thought I’d lost Simon. For a second I went out of my mind, and Kamla was…well, she was just there.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” Bertie said pointedly.
“I know. I’ve tried to explain to Kamla. I’ve asked her forgiveness. But if anything, she’s too quick to forgive.”
Bertie wagged her finger. “You want me to scold you. Is that it?”
“I just need a friend.”
“Whatever you need, honey.” Bertie got up out of her chair and clumsily wound an arm around Joanna’s shoulders. She smelled of gardenia eau de cologne. The waiter arrived with her tonic. The women disentangled themselves and tapped their glasses together. Joanna wondered why she didn’t feel better.
“Here I am living in the most crowded country on the planet,” she said, trying to backpedal into lightheartedness. “You’d think I’d crave solitude.”
“We all feel alone, sometimes.” Behind the dark glasses Bertie’s expression shifted. She nibbled on the corner of her mouth, then said, “Joanna, we ’ve never really talked about your—your circumstances. I didn’t think it was my place. But Bill’s filled me in a little.” Bill. Bertie’s husband. A press officer with the U.S. Information Agency.
Bertie placed a cigarette in her mouth and struck a match. The glint of her wedding band caught Joanna’s eye. It dug into the soft skin of her finger as if rooted there. Joanna pushed her own ring back off her knuckle.
“Then you probably know as much as I do,” she said.
“A circular went around last week. Officially, there are more than four hundred Americans trapped inside China. Twenty-three in jail. The Chinese say they’re all spies, of course, but the State Department is keeping this a deep dark secret.”
“Why?”
“Well, probably because some are spies.”
“What about the rest?”
“Missionaries, mostly, I think, some academic types who were so far out in the middle of nowhere they couldn’t get to the border in time. And maybe a few old naive lefties who thought Mao Tse-tung was the Second Coming.” Bertie sighed. “What I’m trying to tell you in my usual roundabout way is,
I know what folks in Washington have been saying about your husband, and maybe that’s kind of a smoke screen. I mean, it’s easier to blame the victim than for them to admit they haven’t the foggiest idea how to rescue him. Right?”
If only you knew, Joanna thought. “You’d probably better not speak too loudly, or they’ll put a black mark next to your name as well. But I appreciate the thought. By the way, who was that man with you at the maidan that night? There was so much noise I couldn’t hear when you introduced us.”
Bertie wriggled in her seat. “Oh, he’s a wonderful guy. Doug Freeman. He’s new to Delhi, works for one of the agencies. International Vision. Literacy programs mostly. Right up your alley. You know, actually, I wasn’t sure if it would be appropriate, but I was sort of thinking you two might hit it off…”
“Oh, Bertie.” Joanna groaned. “I don’t think so.”
Bertie put her cigarette down and fished in her pocketbook. “Well, far be it from me to push it, but I just happen to have his card. And that’s the end of it.”
Joanna took the card to appease her. The waiter stopped to see if they wanted another round. Joanna’s drink was almost empty, and she longed for another, but that would mean sitting here another half-hour. She shook her head. “I’m terribly sorry, Bertie. But the heat seems to have killed my appetite and given me a splitting headache. I think I’m going to go.”
Bertie removed her glasses, settled her round brown eyes on Joanna, and held them there. Too gently. “I don’t suppose this is any of my business either, but what’s become of your friend, Lawrence Malcolm?”
“He left Delhi months ago.” Her hand dropped over her pocket. “Why?”
“Are you still in touch with him?” Bertie’s attempt at circumspection was pathetic.
“Why?”