by Robin Cook
“Something is wrong,” Neil said, shaking his head. He’d advanced into the foyer of the room, and as he turned to leave, his eye caught the damaged trim on the doorjamb where the safety chain had been attached. “Here’s something,” he said. “The safety chain and its housing are missing.”
“You’re so right,” Sidharth said. He pulled out his mobile and called down to the front desk. “Have security come up to nine twelve on the double.”
“I want the police called,” Neil said. “I want them called now. I think there has been a kidnapping.”
Chapter 36
OCTOBER 19, 2007
FRIDAY, 7:14 P.M.
VARANASI, INDIA
There’s no denying that Varanasi is an interesting city,” Laurie said. “But that’s as far as I’m willing to go.” She, Jack, and Arun had just reached the Dasashvamedha ghat on the River Ganges. They had had to walk on a horrendously busy pedestrian shopping street closed to traffic except for official vehicles for what she thought could have been a mile.
The flight from New Delhi had gone reasonably well, although it was delayed by more than a half-hour. It was also very crowded. The ride from the airport to the hotel took almost as long as the plane ride, but both Laurie and Jack had been entranced by the view outside their windows. There had been a constant cavalcade of small, primitive and crowded commercial shops of a bewildering variety, and the closer they got to the center of the city, the more squalid they became. It was easy for the two pathologists to believe India had a billion people, considering the population density they were witnessing, and also a half-billion stray animals.
Check-in at the hotel went smoothly, particularly because the general manager, Pradeep Bajpai, was an acquaintance of Dr. Ram. And Pradeep had been helpful by providing the contact with a professor at the Banaras Hindu University by the name of Jawahar Krishna, who was willing to be a guide. Jawahar had come directly to the hotel, while the group had an early dinner. The thought was that they might be out a good portion of the night, and they’d better eat while they could.
“It is a city that takes getting used to,” Jawahar said, understanding where Laurie was coming from. He was somewhere in his forties or early fifties, with a broad face, bright eyes, and curly gray hair. With his Western-style clothes and flawless English, he could have been a professor at an Ivy League college. It turned out he’d studied at Columbia University for several years.
“I’m alternately impressed with the feeling of religiosity and repulsed by the filth,” Laurie continued. “Particularly the excrement, human and otherwise.” They had passed numerous cows, stray dogs, and even some goats wandering among the throngs of people, the garbage, and all kinds of trash.
“We make no excuses,” Jawahar said. “I’m afraid it has been this way for more than three thousand years and will continue to be like this for the next.”
Jawahar had also been particularly helpful for the group’s real reason for having come to Varanasi—namely, to try to get access to Benfatti’s and Lucas’s corpses. As a Shiva scholar, Jawahar was personal friends with one of the leading Brahmin priests of the Manikarnika ghat. The Manikarnika was the major of the two cremation ghats in Varanasi, and where Benfatti and Lucas were undoubtedly being sent. As a go-between, he’d been willing to negotiate with his friend on Jack and Laurie’s behalf to be notified by mobile phone when the Americans had arrived and allowed access for enough time to obtain their samples. The price was to be ten thousand rupees, or a little more than two hundred dollars. Jack had tried to have Jawahar find how much the hospitals were paying, but whether the Brahmin knew or not, he wouldn’t say.
“So, where are we here?” Jack asked, looking down the tiered steps toward the river. The sun had set behind them. In the faltering light the river was a vast, smooth, oozing body that looked more like crude oil than water. Down at the edge, fifteen to twenty people were bathing. A wide variety of small boats cluttered the shoreline. The current was slow, as evidenced by various slow-moving flotsam. “My God! Is that a human body they are throwing into the water out there, and a cow carcass floating by?”
Jawahar’s eyes followed Jack’s pointing finger. The objects were about two hundred yards offshore. “I believe you are right,” he said. “It’s not unusual. There are certain people who are not allowed to be cremated. They are just thrown into the water.”
“Like who?” Laurie asked, making a disgusted expression.
“Children under a certain age, pregnant women, lepers, people bitten by snakes, sadhus, and—”
“What are sadhus?” Laurie asked.
Jawahar twisted around and pointed to a line of aged, bearded men with dreadlocks knotted into buns sitting cross-legged alongside the passageway to the ghat. Others were spotted around the ghat. Some wore robes; others were practically naked, wearing only loincloths. “They are self-proclaimed Hindu monks,” Jawahar explained. “Some were respectable businessmen earlier in their lives.”
“What do they do?” Laurie asked.
“Nothing. They just wander around, indulge in bhang, which is marijuana and yogurt, and meditate. All they own is what they carry around, and they subsist totally on alms.”
“To each his own,” Jack said. “But back to my question. Where are we?”
“This is the main or most known or the most populated ghat,” Jawahar explained. “It’s also the focal point of religious activity in Varanasi, as you can see by all the Hindu priests performing their particular religious rites.”
About halfway down the stone steps and parallel with the water’s edge, there were a series of platforms. Each platform had an orange-robed priest carrying out complicated movements with candlesticks, bells, and lamps. Loud chanting inundated the entire area from a series of speakers strung the length of the ghat. Several thousand people milled about, including other Hindu priests, sadhus, merchants, con artists, children, would-be guides, strolling families, pilgrims from all over India, and tourists.
“I recommend we hire a boat,” Jawahar said. “We have plenty of time before we are apt to hear from the Brahmin, but even if we do, we can put in at shore closer to the cremation location.”
“Is that the cremation ghat we can just see?” Laurie asked, pointing off toward the north. There was an indistinct glow and apparent smoke snaking up against the darkening mackerel sky.
“That’s it,” Jawahar agreed. “We’ll see it better from the water. I’ll find us a boat. When I do, I’ll wave.” Jawahar headed down the steps toward the river.
“What do you think of Varanasi?” Arun questioned.
“Like I said, it’s interesting,” Laurie responded. “But it’s overwhelming to my Western sensibilities.”
“It’s like being in a number of centuries all at the same time,” Jack commented. He watched a nearby Indian snap open his mobile phone.
The boat ride had been a good idea. For several hours as night fell, they lazed up and down the coastline, mesmerized by the activity on all the ghats, but particularly drawn to the Manikarnika, with its ten to twelve funeral pyres. Silhouetted figures could be seen stoking the fires and sending forth explosions of sparks and smoke into the night sky. Along the waterline were huge stacks of firewood, some of it rare sandalwood.
Slightly elevated above the firewood was the pit where the pyres were built. Above the pit were steps leading up to a sheer masonry wall. Topping the wall was a cantilevered balcony as part of a large conical-towered temple complex. Beside the temple was a squalid palace topped by a nonfunctioning clock tower. Thanks to the fires and the frantic action, the scene projected an image akin to the apocalypse.
It was thirty-five minutes after ten that Laurie’s cell phone rang. She’d looked at the time before she handed the phone to Jawahar. She could see it was an Indian number.
Jawahar spoke in Hindi, and only very briefly. He handed the phone back to Laurie.
“Your bodies have arrived,” he reported. “The Brahmin has them in a small temple off tha
t large balcony you can see from here. He said we have to come right away.”
“Let’s do it,” Laurie said.
As the boatman oared them in to shore, Jawahar told them they were going to disembark at the Scindia ghat, because females were not allowed at the water’s edge of Manikarnika ghat or at the level of the funeral pyres.
“Why on earth is that?” Laurie asked.
“To discourage wives from leaping onto husbands’ funeral pyres,” Jawahar said. “Traditional India didn’t make life easy for widows.”
When they landed, Jack and Laurie were fascinated by the huge Shiva temple tilted and half submerged in the Ganges. Along with Arun, they walked over to gaze at it while Jawahar settled up with the boatmen.
In order to get from Scindia ghat to Manikarnika ghat, they had to enter the old section of the city that abutted the ghats for their four-mile extent. As soon as they moved away from the open waterfront, the city became entirely medieval in character, composed of dark, claustrophobic, twisting, yard-wide cobblestone lanes. In contrast to the silky coolness of the Ganges shoreline, they were now engulfed in fetid heat and the smell of old urine and cow dung. It was also crowded with people, cows, and dogs. Laurie wanted to pull into herself like a snail to avoid touching anything. The smell was such that she wanted to mouth-breathe, but fear of infectious disease made her want to breathe through her nose. Seldom had she been so uncomfortable as she tripped after Jawahar, desperately trying to avoid stepping in excrement.
Every so often there would be sudden relief of the claustrophobia as they came upon an illuminated restaurant, an open shop, or a bhang stall lit with a single bare bulb. But mostly it was dark, hot, and smelly.
“Alright, here’s the stairway,” Jawahar said, coming to such a sudden halt in the darkness that Laurie, who was second, bumped into him. She apologized; he dismissed it.
“These stairs will lead up to that large balcony. I advise you to all stay together. We don’t want anyone to get lost.”
Laurie couldn’t imagine he’d think they might have the inclination to wander.
“There are various hostels up there,” Jawahar continued. “Each one supervised by a different Brahmin. They are for the dying. Don’t wander into them. There will be a few candles, but otherwise it will be dark. I’ve brought a flashlight, but we’ll only use it when you actually take your sample. Are we all clear?”
Jack and Arun said yes. Laurie stayed quiet. Her mouth and throat had become dry.
“Are you okay, Laurie?” Jack asked. They all could barely see one another.
“I guess,” Laurie managed, trying to scare up a bit of saliva to moisten her lips.
“Do you have the money?” Jawahar asked Jack.
“I got it,” Jack said, giving his front hip pocket a slap.
“One other thing,” Jawahar said. “Don’t talk to the Dom.”
“Who are the Dom?” Laurie asked.
“The Dom are the Untouchables who from time immemorial have worked the crematoria fires and handled the dead. They live here in the temple with the eternal fire of Shiva. They are dressed in white robes and shave their heads. Don’t talk to them. They take their jobs very seriously.”
Don’t worry, Laurie thought but didn’t say. I’m not talking to anybody.
Jawahar turned and mounted the stairs, which curved to the left and seemed interminable. When they emerged they were on a balcony with a rudimentary railing. Directly out was the broad expanse of the river, with a nearly full moon rising. Below were the raging fires of the funeral pyres filling the air with sparks, ash, dry heat, and smoke. The Dom could be seen as black figures wielding long sticks as they prodded the fires into miniature infernos. The burning bodies were clearly in evidence in each.
Lying about on the surface of the balcony were thirty or so bodies encased in white muslin shrouds. In the back of the balcony, in a wide concave orientation, were the dark openings of various temples. The center one glowed with the eternal fire of Shiva.
“Let me have the money,” Jawahar said, holding out his hand in the moonlight.
Jack complied.
“Everybody stay right here. I’ll be right back.”
“Good grief,” Laurie complained. “This is awful.”
“So, people actually come here and live in these caves to die?” Jack asked Arun.
“That was my understanding,” Arun said.
Jawahar reappeared. He’d gone into one of the two corner Indian cupolas. “The bodies in question are in that tiny temple next to the stairs we used to get up here,” he said. “The Brahmin told us to be quick and not draw attention to ourselves. The problem is that the Dom believe one of their major jobs is to protect the corpses.”
“That’s all we need,” Laurie murmured, as they all moved in the direction they’d come. She could feel herself start to tremble.
When they reached the temple, they ducked in one after the other. They waited until their eyes had adjusted as much as they were going to do. Besides the door opening, there was an unglazed window. Enough moonlight flooded in to see the two bodies side by side. They, too, were shrouded with white muslin.
“You have the syringes?” Jack asked Laurie. Laurie held them up. She’d taken them from her shoulder bag. Jack took one. “I’ll do one, you do the other. I don’t think we need the flashlight.”
They untied the cord holding closed what turned out to be muslin sacks. Arun helped Laurie while Jawahar helped Jack pull the sacks down enough to expose the suprapubic area. Directing the needles straight down just cephaled of the pubis, both syringes filled with urine.
“A piece of cake,” Jack said happily.
After securely capping both syringes, Laurie put them into her shoulder bag. Then everyone bent to the slightly more difficult task of getting the bodies back into the shrouds. Just as they were almost finished, the moonlight suddenly dimmed. Looking up, the group realized that the door was being blocked by two Dom. “What is going on in here?” the first demanded.
Jack responded first, getting to his feet and crowding the Dom out of the doorway. “We’re just finishing up. We’re doctors. We wanted to make sure these two were truly dead. But we’re done.”
Jawahar, Laurie, and Arun pushed out of the temple right behind Jack.
Although the Dom were initially confused by Jack’s statement, it didn’t last long. “Body thieves!” he yelled out at the top of his lungs, and tried to grab onto the front of Jack’s shirt.
“Run!” Jack yelled in response. Laurie did not need further invitation. She threw herself into the stairway, her legs churning. Jawahar came next, followed by Arun.
Jack gave a karate-style chop to the first Dom’s grasping arms, only to have the second latch on to him from the side. At that point Jack used a closed fist, hitting the second Dom square in the face. In the background it looked like Dom were coming out of the stonework. Jack followed with another closed-fist body shot to the first Dom, who buckled. In the next instant Jack was on the stairs.
When he reached the narrow alleyway at the base of the stairs, it took him a moment to see Arun, who’d stayed in sight to wave him on. Jawahar was taking them in the opposite direction that they’d come. Jack ran toward Arun, who’d recommenced running. Behind them they could hear a very vocal horde of Dom coming down the stairs.
In fabulous physical shape, Jack quickly overtook Arun, but then they both ran into Laurie and Jawahar, who’d gotten bogged down in pedestrian traffic. The dark, empty, very narrow lane had butted into a larger but more crowded alley complete with a prone cow chewing its cud. Laurie almost fell over the animal in her haste.
For another five minutes the group pushed and shoved their way to put more distance between themselves and the angered Dom. When they were confident they were no longer being chased, they stopped, each with his or her chest heaving from exertion—everyone, that is, except Jack. They looked at one another, and partially from the anxiety the episode had engendered, they laughed.
After they had recovered their breath, Jawahar led them through the labyrinthine lanes back to Vishwanath Gali, the shopping street that had initially taken them to the Dasashvamedha ghat. There Jawahar managed to hire two cycle rickshaws, which transported them back to the Taj Ganges hotel.
“What I want to do more than anything else,” Laurie was saying as they approached the front desk to get their room keys, “is take a long shower.”
“Are you Dr. Laurie Montgomery?” the desk clerk asked before Laurie had a chance to say anything. His tone was exigent, immediately catching Laurie’s attention.
“I am,” Laurie responded with concern.
“You have several urgent messages. The caller has called three times, and I’m supposed to ask you to respond immediately.”
Laurie took the messages with alarm.
“What is it?” Jack asked, with equivalent unease. He looked over her shoulder.
“It’s Neil,” Laurie said. She looked at Jack. “Do you think it could be about Jennifer?”
As Laurie got her mobile phone out of her bag, the group moved over to a sitting area overlooking the hotel’s extensive grounds. Not knowing Neil’s cell phone number, she called the Amal Palace Hotel and asked to be put through to Neil’s room.
Neil picked up before the first ring had completed, as if he were hovering over the phone.
“Jennifer has been kidnapped,” he blurted, even before he was sure it was Laurie.
“Oh, no!” Laurie cried. Hastily, she repeated the news for Jack’s benefit.
“It must have been this morning when I was with you guys,” Neil said. “When I came back, I thought she was sleeping. I didn’t find out she wasn’t here until almost six o’clock. I’m so angry with myself I could die.”
Neil went on to tell the whole story, including how the missing safety chain was the only clue. That and the fact that nothing is missing from her room.
“Has there been any note? Any demands?” Laurie asked.