A Star Called Lucky

by Bapsy Jain

  Lucky laughed, but inside she began to wonder, What have I got myself into?

  The meeting was in a spacious conference room on the 20th floor. A dozen staff gathered around a C-shaped table, pens and cups clattering and phones beeping as they were switched off. Lucky came in last. Evan did not introduce her, and no one asked who she was or even seemed to notice her at all. Lucky wondered if visitors were common, or if Coleman’s own people came and went so often; there was no sense trying to get to know them.

  Coleman walked in at five on the button. He took his place at the head of the table. “I’ll get to the point,” he said. On the video screen appeared the same sketch Coleman had showed Lucky the day before. “We haven’t had any change or new developments regarding this Telok….Lobsang fellow,” Coleman said. “There are, however, reports of eleven new influenza cases in Mumbai. Given the state of the pertinent ministries, that means there could be anywhere from ten to a hundred new cases, and God-only-knows how many fatalities.” He looked at Lucky. “Miss Boyce has been brought on board to lend her expertise. She knows Mumbai and she’s good at what she does. Unlike most of you,” Coleman said, “who couldn’t find their elbow given a mirror and an anatomy chart.”

  A dozen faces turned to Lucky. She blushed.

  “So what do you think,” Coleman continued. “Is it possible to find this guy?”

  Lucky shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

  “Do you hear that?” Coleman said, looking around the room with a wide grin on his face. “She doesn’t see why not.”

  Lucky looked at the sketch. “This isn’t a lot to go on,” she said.

  “What do you need?”

  “What have you got?”

  “I’ve told you about everything. He’s a doctor. He’s shy about people and technology. He’s hiding out somewhere, we presume in Mumbai, where he runs a mobile clinic.”

  “You trust this?”

  “Yes. Later on we got other images. Some old photos. They’re on file, but this is the most recent. We paid a high price for this one,” Coleman said.

  “If information has to be purchased, can you be sure it’s genuine?”

  Coleman hesitated. “The price I mean,” he said, “is that the man who took it paid with his life. He was killed shortly after he sent this to us.”

  Lucky sucked on her lip. “I assume you suspect the Chinese?”

  Coleman nodded, his expression grave.

  “Still,” Lucky said. “Why couldn’t Lobsang or his people contrive to give you a picture to throw you off? How do you know this is Lobsang Telok, at all? I mean, the picture could have been of anybody. In fact, for all you know, and from what you tell me, the Chinese might have given you the picture to throw you off—and then killed the courier to make you think the likeness was authentic.”

  “Sun Tzu says, ‘Dead spies are those who are fooled by their own leaders into passing on false information.’ My spies tell me the truth.”

  “Yes” Lucky said, “and dead men tell no tales. I ask you again: Why should I believe that this picture is accurate? Especially since you say the man who gave it to you is dead.”

  “Sun Tzu also says, ‘One cannot use spies without sagacity.’ There are many approaches to finding out what you want to know. I believe our man told us the truth. He came to us. We didn’t have to ferret anything out of him.”

  Lucky shrugged. “That’s even worse. He came to you. Be that as it may, you have no idea who the man in this sketch was. Or is. Even if there’s a resemblance to other photos, it still doesn’t mean you were close to the guy.”

  “I know exactly who’s in the pictures,” Coleman said. “It’s just that the man who helped us with it is dead now, so there’s no way to talk to him anymore.”

  “He was Tibetan?”

  “Indian, living in Mumbai.”

  “Where? When did this all happen? Tell me everything.”

  “He showed up at the door of a monastery in Hubli. That’s in south India. This was in 2005.”

  Lucky frowned. “What was he doing in south India?”

  “The usual, I suppose,” Coleman replied. “Working or looking for work. Or smuggling, or something. He took ill and, being Buddhist, showed up at the monastery asking for help.”

  “Sounds just like the story you told me about Sun Lin.”

  “Sort of. And that in itself lends credibility to the story.”

  “Why? Because it’s familiar? If someone wanted to throw you off, the best thing they could do is mislead you with something familiar.”

  Coleman looked around the room and frowned. The group was watching the debate quietly. “The man’s name,” Coleman said, “is Somasundaram. Was Somasundaram. That’s all we know. He went to the south of India, got sick, went to the monastery and was mysteriously healed. When he recovered, he asked what happened. He kept asking questions, but everyone was evasive. Finally, a houseboy told him the story. After that, he began looking for Lobsang. He had no luck at all. That’s when he got him when he just walked right into the embassy in Mumbai and said he had a secret. We spoke to him. What concerns us,” he said, “is that shortly after that, Somasundaram was found dead in his bed.”

  Lucky sighed. “You said you paid for the information.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What was it you just said about dead spies?”

  Coleman frowned.

  “But this man, Somasundaram, he contacted you?”

  “He wanted to know what we knew.”

  “And then you paid him for a picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think a more likely scenario,” Lucky said, “is that this Somasundaram fellow somehow found out you were looking for Lobsang and concocted a story about meeting him. He picked a story he thought would interest you—or else conned you into telling him what you expected to hear—and then took the money and ran. Mr. Coleman—”

  “Clevis.”

  “Clevis. If you are looking for a doctor in Mumbai, I think there are better ways of finding him than going on wild goose chases.”

  “But just for one minute,” Coleman said, “pretend that the sketch is real. What might that tell you about Lobsang?” He leaned forward in his chair. “This Bloodhound thing, can it be made to run in India?”

  “Not quickly,” Lucky said. It would take a year, maybe more. Your best bet, in India, is to do things the Indian way. I could go to Hubli or Mumbai.”

  Coleman shrugged, and after a moment, Lucky continued.

  “From this picture, I suspect that Lobsang is older than he looks. Frankly, I think the drawing tells us more about the artist than it does of the subject. In other words, it’s worthless.

  “I would deduce that Lobsang must depend on others for transportation, and that necessitates that he seldom operates outside of a very limited territory. I suspect that you are dealing with a man who presides over a very small territory and avoids confrontations.”

  “So what action plan does Wonder Girl suggest?”

  Lucky shrugged. “I would approach this from the angle of mobility. He has to move sometimes, somewhere, so how? If he avoids technology, you have already divided up the territory, Mumbai—if that’s where he is—into a kind of grid. You can look where the technology isn’t.”

  “And if we had a crystal ball, we would know where he was next,” Coleman said.

  “That’s not as far-fetched as it may seem,” Lucky said. “Have you heard of the Monty Hall problem?”

  Coleman shook his head.

  “The name was taken from the TV show, Let’s Make a Deal. Here’s how it works. Bear with me. You are shown three doors. Behind one door is a big cash prize. Behind two doors are goats. You choose a door. Monty Hall asks, ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yes,’ you say, yes, I’m sure. Then he shows you that behind one of the doors that you did not choose, there is a goat. He asks, ‘Are you still sure?’ What do you do? Mathematicians all agreed, the odds started at one in three, right? What difference could it make
? But a damn old gossip columnist named Marilyn Vos Savant figured out that, actually, you are more likely to win the prize if you switch. This seems counterintuitive, but the odds have changed since Monty showed you the door with the goat. You made a selection when the odds were one in three. He has given you another choice—one where the odds are two in three. So you are better off switching. Your odds of winning have doubled. They’ve tested and retested this with little mock-ups, and it works like a charm. Try it some time.”

  Coleman looked flabbergasted. “What the hell has Monty Hall got to do with finding Lobsang?”

  “Simple,” Lucky said. “When people tell you where he is not, they are inadvertently increasing the odds that they are telling you where he is.”

  “Enough,” Coleman said. “You make me dizzy.”

  One of Coleman’s men then stood up and talked about a contingency plan for a targeted epidemic—one that might force Lobsang into the open to seek medical treatment himself or to reveal his secret for the good of the masses. What was needed was a germ that was mild, which would be harrowing but not fatal for a man of Lobsang’s presumed age. Something perhaps affecting the kidneys, lungs, or heart. Viral, not microbial. Even better would be a kind of poisoning that would require blood chelating. Lead, cadmium, or some other heavy metal would work……

  Lucky breathed out and was thankful that Coleman shot him down midstream with, “Nonsense! Preposterous! The Health and Human Services doesn’t do such things.”

  For the remainder of the meeting, Lucky remained quiet. This kind of stuff was not only over her head but she thought it was an odd conversation for a group of staff members working for GWC to even raise the point.

  Coleman ended the meeting by saying, “You guys get together and update me, everyday same time, right here. I want concrete pointers and suggestions,” He turned to Lucky and added, “Not imaginary ones.”

  When the meeting was over, Evan showed Lucky to her temporary workstation, an office, he explained, kept for visiting researchers.

  The office was spacious, with a broad bank of windows facing west and overlooking the Potomac. The room was flooded with bright evening light. There was a standard office desk and a set of green upholstered chairs clustered around a coffee table. In one corner stood a mini-fridge, a sink, and a small convenience stand furnished with coffee and tea and an electric kettle, a small coffee machine, sugar, sweetener, paper towels and a tin of tea crackers. Two tall, gold dust dracaenas in green ceramic pots were placed on either side of the windows. The computer on Lucky’s desk had a 21-inch monitor and was faster than fast. It was already on and, according to Evan, would stay that way 24/7. There was no password, no boot up, nothing was required on her part. Apparently, the system was a closed network that was secured to the highest levels. She should note that any correspondence going outside of the building would be automatically logged and monitored, as was anything inbound.

  After Evan was gone, Lucky tried out the desk by sitting down and checking her e-mail. She called Amay. He was at work, but the babysitter put Sean on the phone. “Hi, sweetie,” Lucky said. “Tell me about your day.”

  When she was done talking to Sean, Lucky looked around the office. It was nice. Very nice. She went to the door, but—Collette. Damn, she thought. She went back to the phone, but Collette’s warning buzzed in her ear. A pay phone. Right. Do they even have pay phones anymore? But if Evan said all outgoing Internet was monitored, no doubt, cell connections were as well. Lucky decided to call from the hotel. But when she arrived and settled in, she laid down for “just a minute” and promptly fell asleep.

  Chapter 7

  6 a.m. The phone rang. Where am I? Lucky woke, still dressed from the day before. She had been deep into a dream about India. She was at the Hanging Gardens in Mumbai, with Shanti, but it wasn’t the Hanging Gardens. There was the hill and the path and the bench where they met, but the path had led around the park and then into a building in which there was a swamp. Lucky was terrified of the dark, shadowed water—or, more precisely, of what might lurk below its surface. Shanti was not afraid of the water at all. She sprang from lotus to lotus, landing on the bright pink flowers without causing so much as a ripple. Lucky wanted to call out to her, but no words came. She wanted to run after her, but her feet felt weighed down, as if she were dragging iron bars through the mud. Shanti was almost across the pond. She turned, pirouetting on one toe like a ballerina, and beckoned Lucky on. “Travel light! You’re carrying too much of a burden.”

  What burden? Lucky wondered. The phone rang again. Where am I? She found the receiver. “Hello.”

  Collette. “You didn’t call me,” she said.

  “What time is it?”

  “Six a.m.”

  “Why on earth are you calling me at this hour?”

  “It’s important, with a capital M.”

  “Are you all right? Where’s your mother? Does she know you’re calling me?”

  “I’m fine. Mom’s in bed with her boyfriend—but I’m not supposed to know. I’ll have to act like I’ve gone to school today so she can sneak him out. And she doesn’t know I’m calling. Call me back from a pay phone right away, okay? I gotta talk to you before they get up.”

  “Okay, Sweetie.” Lucky said. She sighed. “I have to get up and get dressed first.”

  6:05 a.m. Lucky staggered into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub to warm it up. She was greeted by a heavy spray of cold water. Some joker had pointed the showerhead over the side. She shut her eyes. She was dripping wet and freezing cold. At least I’m awake now. She showered, patted on a little makeup—not too much for the first day in a new office, dried her hair, then stood in front of her suitcase and looked at her clothes. What the heck was I thinking when I packed?

  In her mind, she heard Shanti, “You weren’t thinking, and that’s the problem. Mindful in the little things. What were you doing?”

  Lucky had been thinking about Sean and Maria and Amay and Collette. Anything but the task at hand, which should have been, What do I wear on the first day of work in a new office in Washington freakin’ DC? Laid out in the suitcase were all of what Lucky called her lawyer clothes: severe pants suits in military grays and greens and browns. She sighed. Someday, I’m going to have a job where I can wear whatever I want to work. Almost immediately she heard Shanti’s voice, “Be careful what you ask for—you might get it.”

  Downstairs, the coffee shop was open. Fifteen bucks for a sticky cheese omelet, some dry hash browns, and a cold cup of coffee that managed to be both bitter and weak at the same time. “Do you have a pay phone?” Lucky asked the waitress.

  “In the bar,” she replied.

  The bar was shut, a padlocked iron gate separating it from the hotel lobby. She asked the receptionist, “What time does the bar open?”

  The receptionist looked at Lucky. “It’s six thirty, ma’am. Did you try the minibar in your room, or does it need to be restocked?”

  Minibar? Lucky scowled. “I don’t need a drink. I’m looking for a pay phone. The waitress said there’s a pay phone in the bar.”

  “Oh, sure. A pay phone. I should have known. Well, the bar doesn’t open until eleven, but there are courtesy phones down the hall by the elevators, or you can make free local calls from your room. Long distance is a bit pricey, though. You’d be better off using your cell. You do have a cell, don’t you?”

  “Forget it,” Lucky said. “I’ll find one outside.” But there were none between the hotel and the office. She walked on and, realizing she had found the office, sighed as she stepped toward the gate. She would try again later.

  For most of the morning, Lucky pored over Coleman’s Lobsang file, having asked for time to update herself that morning before she met with the team for discussions. Coleman had made this file available for the team, along with some other findings stamped “strictly classified, locked, password needed.” There was a lot of background in the file, none of which, so far as Lucky could see, was sensitiv
e. Much of it consisted of newspaper clippings.

  The Tibetan diaspora. Primary school in McLeod Ganj. Secondary school on a scholarship to British International School in New Delhi. University College of London. Medical school at Oxford. Oxford? Lucky leaned back in her chair. This did not compute. A man who purportedly eschewed all technology sporting a medical degree from one of the finest — and most technically advanced — universities in the world? A man reputed to be dealing in — dare she say — magic mushrooms?

  There were, as Coleman said, some old photos. Outdated. Lobsang in the back row of a group photo with a gaggle of grinning scholarship recipients. A blurry, white-lab-coated Lobsang squinting into a microscope. One photo was of another student — Lobsang was just caught in the back, slightly out of focus. Here he was in jeans and a Grateful Dead tee-shirt, his hair grown long and swept back over his shoulders, standing with a blond girl outside of what could only be Royal Albert Hall, in the rain. And here was an earnest-looking Lobsang in glasses, standing alone, framed in a doorway of what might have been a library or a dorm. He was short, his head large and square, his hands swinging awkwardly by his side. Lucky stared into the photo displayed on her computer screen. There was something familiar about Lobsang’s expression. The narrowing of the eyebrows, the tight mouth, the light in his eyes, the way he cocked his head slightly to one side. He looked like he was about to say something important, something that was weighing on his mind. Something he had thought about for a long time. He looked like he was about to say, “Goodbye.”

  And evidently, he did, for there were no more photos. Not one in thirty-one years. Not even a drawing until a man named Somasundaram caught dengue fever in Hubli — allegedly.

  Lucky leafed through Coleman’s research, looking at what he had done, and wondering what he might have missed. Medical colleges in India and Tibet. What had he done there? There were satellite images of India dotted with possible sightings or the locations of possible acquaintances. Shipping records for medical supplies. Excerpts from telephone conversations and e-mails of suspected associates, although not one of them mentioned Lobsang by name. Where did all of this stuff come from? And how did the U.S. government have that much clout? There were even sections about suspected Chinese activity. None of it was especially useful. If they listened to my phone conversations, and if they read my e-mails, what might they infer about me? Lucky wondered. If you’re looking to find the Virgin on a tortilla, then sooner or later you’ll find the Virgin on a tortilla.