A Covert Affair

by Susan Mann

  “Do you even know me at all?”

  He laughed, slipped his arm around her waist, and hugged her to his side. “Manuscripts it is.”

  They finished their champagne and placed the empty glasses on a passing tray. James’s hand rested at the small of her back as they zigzagged through the crowd toward one of the staircases. Sitar and drum music played by two men sitting cross-legged on a dais drifted up with them as they climbed the steps.

  On the mezzanine, Quinn stood between two sets of double marble pillars and looked up at the colorful stained glass ceiling. “This is incredible.”

  After a moment, she took his hand and led him to the area overlooking the Main Reading Room. A large round desk stood at the center. Three rows of wooden desks surrounded it in concentric circles.

  “Check out the dome,” James said. His voice was filled with the same awe she felt. A mural of twelve seated figures rimmed the round skylight at its center. The rest was covered in intricately patterned designs of glowing gold.

  “This place is just amazing,” Quinn said. They turned and started for the hall where the exhibition was installed. “I could come here every day for weeks and not see everything. And that’s not even counting if they let me in the book stacks.”

  “They’d never be able to flush you out. I can hear the librarians now. ‘We don’t know where she hides exactly, but we put food out every night, and in the morning, it’s gone.’”

  She laughed. “So in a month or two, I emerge from the shadows, all pasty-skinned and wild-eyed?”

  “Yeah. Like Gollum.”

  “Hey!” She smacked him lightly on the arm with her evening bag. “I wouldn’t look that bad . . . I have better hair.”

  “You have better everything,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her.

  She snickered as, hand in hand, they followed the signs until they reached the exhibition. Barely inside the room, Quinn came to a complete stop. “James,” she breathed. “Look at all these manuscripts. I don’t know where to start.”

  Before he could utter a sound, she pulled him toward the display case with the fewest number of people clustered around it.

  An ancient-looking book lay open under protective glass. “It’s breathtaking,” she said, gazing at the luminous illustration painted on one of the fragile pages.

  “The colors are amazing, especially the dude with the blue skin and four arms,” James replied.

  “And the border around him and the mustachioed guy he’s talking to is exquisite.” Amorphous blue and gold beds of violet, yellow, and red flowers encircled the figures at the center of the painted page. Quinn read the information on the plaque alongside the open book. “This is a scene from the Bhagavad Gita. The blue guy is Krishna and he’s talking to Prince Arjuna, who is having doubts about facing his family and friends on the battlefield.” She glanced at the handwritten script on the facing page. “I’ll have to take their word for it. The plaque says it’s written in Sanskrit.”

  “Yeah, because if it was written in Hindi, you could totally read it.”

  “Totally.”

  They moved to another display case. “Okay, I wasn’t expecting anything like that,” James said.

  A dozen pieces of flat wood akin to big tongue depressors were strung together like a book with a thin strip of leather. Quinn leaned in and squinted at the exquisitely fine etchings.

  “It’s part of the Kama Sutra written on palm leaves,” he said and bent to get a closer look. “With illustrations, I see, although the pieces seem to be strategically placed so we can’t see the, ah . . .” He stopped and tipped his head to one side. “Techniques.”

  She glanced at him side-eyed. “I’m sure the parents of the kids that will come through here will appreciate the curator’s discretion.”

  “I’m sure.” With a devious glint in his eye, he said, “I bet you’re flexible enough to—”

  Her elbow poked into his ribs, stopping him midsentence. “Watch it.”

  “What? I’m just saying.”

  “We’ll have to find out sometime, won’t we?”

  A growl rumbled up and he slid his arms around her from behind. They stayed like that for a moment until he squeezed her and kissed the side of her head. “Maybe we should keep moving before we end up in serious trouble.”

  Her head dropped back on his shoulder. “That’s probably wise.” She hooked her hands behind his neck and brought his head down. Her lips brushed his ear when she said in a husky tone, “FYI, there’s an English version online. No illustrations, though.”

  “That’s no good. You know I only read books with pictures.” When her laughter subsided, he said, “Tell me. You know about this online version because . . .”

  “Because I’m a librarian and I know all things.”

  “This is true.” He pecked her cheek before releasing her.

  The juxtaposition between the two manuscripts displayed in the same case was striking. While the palm leaves had an earthy quality, the open book was more refined, its pages featuring an intricately painted scene with opulently dressed men astride exquisitely adorned warhorses.

  “Do you find yourself searching for hidden clues when you look at that page?” Quinn asked. During their op in London, they’d discovered clues regarding a number of Soviet nuclear missiles hidden in the illustrations of a manuscript.

  James huffed a quiet laugh. “I do. I was just wondering if those three elephants had some deeper meaning.”

  “So was I,” she said. “This is a volume of the Padshahnama. It tells the history of the seventeenth-century Mughal emperor Shah Jahan’s reign. This shows one of his commanders capturing a fort.”

  “Love and war in the same display case,” James said.

  “Shah Jahan was this warrior emperor, but when his beloved wife died, he had the Taj Mahal built for her as a tomb and monument.”

  “That’s definitely an impressive gesture.”

  “She deserved it. She died while giving birth to their fourteenth child.”

  James’s eyes widened. “Fourteen? She absolutely deserved it.” After glancing down at the information card accompanying the manuscript, he said, “It talks about Shah Jahan having the Taj Mahal built, but it doesn’t mention his wife or fourteen kids. Where’d you get that?”

  She waved her upturned hands through the air. “Again. It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

  “Apologies, O Great One,” he said, and dipped his head in a solemn bow. “I now know there is no limit to your super power of recalling bits of trivia.”

  “You’re forgiven,” she said and gave him a quick kiss.

  He smiled his thanks and moved on to the next display case. “Quinn, come here. Check this out.”

  She joined him and began examining the manuscript. A voice behind her asked, “Are you Quinn Ellington?”

  She spun around and faced an elderly Indian man with a beard as white as snow. He wore a tuxedo and a meticulously wrapped light blue turban.

  “I am,” she said, giving him a cautious smile. James tensed beside her.

  His smile was as warm as his eyes. “Forgive me for sneaking up on you. My name is Darvesh Singh,” he said in a beautifully lilting Indian accent. “I am a friend of Chester Ellington. It is I who sent him the invitation to attend this gathering tonight. He informed me his librarian granddaughter named Quinn would be coming in his place. I heard this young man use the name, and I wondered if you are she.”

  She relaxed and her smile turned genuine. “You’re right. I’m Chester’s Quinn.”

  His smile brightened. “Chester mentioned you would enjoy the exhibition more than anyone else in Washington. Most people have come through here and given the items no more than a cursory glance. Given the amount of time you have spent here already, I believe he was correct.”

  “We’re enjoying examining these beautiful manuscripts very much,” Quinn said. “I’m grateful my grandfather let us come here tonight in his place.”

  “I am
sure it was his pleasure.” Mr. Singh turned his attention to James and offered a handshake. “You must be James. Chester mentioned you were Quinn’s beau.”

  Quinn smiled to herself. “Beau” was exactly the word her grandfather would use.

  “I am. Happily so.” James relaxed and shook the other man’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you. How long have you known Mr. Ellington?”

  “For many, many years. He used to come see me in India when we both worked in the import/export business.” His head wobbled from side to side. “He would import, I would export.”

  Her grandpa’s cover when he was an active operative had been an importer/exporter. She wondered if Mr. Singh had truly been in the same line of work as her grandfather.

  “Do you still work in that business?” Quinn asked.

  “No, I am connected to the Indian embassy here in Washington now.”

  It was sounding more and more like Mr. Singh and her grandfather had taken similar retirement paths.

  “I’ve noticed the items on display have come from all over India,” Quinn said. “It must have taken a lot of coordination to get so many valuable manuscripts together in one place. Were you involved with that?”

  “I was, yes. The librarians and curators here at the Library of Congress have been so gracious and helpful. Of course, none of this would have been possible without the championing of the exhibition by our ambassador. He and those of us at the embassy worked diligently to coordinate it all.” Mr. Singh looked at a tall man bending over a display case across the room. “And there he is now. Your Excellency.” The man straightened and looked their way. Mr. Singh waved him over.

  As the ambassador approached, Quinn made a quick assessment. He was almost the same height as James, and his hair was equal parts black and gray. She guessed him to be in his mid to late fifties. His smile was pleasant, if not slightly forced. The word that popped into her head was “aloof.”

  “Your Excellency, may I introduce you to Miss Quinn Ellington and Mr. James Anderson. Miss Ellington, Mr. Anderson, this is His Excellency, Madhav Sharma, the Ambassador of India to the United States.”

  “Miss Ellington, Mr. Anderson,” the ambassador said. His accent sounded more British than Indian. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  “It’s an honor, Your Excellency,” Quinn said as she shook his hand. Not versed in protocol when addressing an ambassador, she decided to take the safest course and follow Mr. Singh’s lead. She hoped she hadn’t committed a diplomatic faux pas that would incite an international incident.

  As the ambassador greeted James, Mr. Singh said, “I was just mentioning, Your Excellency, how integral your support was in bringing these magnificent manuscripts to the United States.”

  “I felt it important not only as a touchstone for those of Indian descent who live here, but to expose people of all backgrounds to the art and literature of our diverse culture.”

  “It must have taken a lot of work,” Quinn said.

  “And a lot of security,” James added. Four Indian soldiers dressed identically to the men downstairs stood at attention in the four corners of the exhibition hall.

  “It is necessary to have our most elite soldiers to guard these items. Most are irreplaceable,” Ambassador Sharma said.

  “Sikh soldiers have been a vital part of the Indian Army for many years. They are valiant and fierce warriors.” Mr. Singh’s voice was laced with pride. “It was my honor to suggest they protect these precious bits of our heritage.”

  “Are you enjoying the exhibit?” Ambassador Sharma asked.

  Quinn nodded. “Very much. The detail and artistry of the manuscripts are breathtaking. And the different media people have used to write on is quite creative. The palm leaves, for instance.”

  “Being able to effectively use the resources around us is an important skill. Necessity is the mother of invention, as they say,” the ambassador said.

  “I certainly agree.” Quinn had been known to use library supplies for something other than their specified purposes on more than one occasion.

  “If you will excuse me, I have other guests to greet,” Ambassador Sharma said. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure we will,” James said.

  Quinn nodded and added, “Thank you for bringing these manuscripts here. It is an honor to see them in person.”

  “You are quite welcome.” With that, the ambassador dipped his head and joined another group at the other end of the room.

  James and Quinn spent another half hour looking at the rest of the manuscripts. When they rejoined the reception in the Great Hall, Mr. Singh hurried over to them. “Come with me, please. There are a couple of people I would like you to meet.”

  They dutifully followed him, snaking around clusters of guests until they reached two women standing together. Both were dressed in exquisite saris. The younger of the two was the most beautiful woman Quinn had ever seen.

  Quinn instinctively took James’s hand and laced her fingers with his.

  Mr. Singh said, “Mrs. Sharma, Miss Sharma, I would like to introduce you to Quinn Ellington and James Anderson. Quinn and James, this is Mrs. Sonia Sharma, the wife of the ambassador, and their daughter, Kavita.”

  After a round of greetings and handshakes, Mr. Singh said to Quinn and James, “I thought you might enjoy chatting with someone your own age. Kavita went to Georgetown Law School and recently passed the bar. She works at one of the most prestigious firms here in Washington.”

  Kavita shot Mr. Singh a look equal parts affection and exasperation. “I apologize for Darvesh’s enthusiastic bragging. He acts as if getting a job as a lawyer in this city is an unparalleled accomplishment.”

  Kavita’s witty reply immediately won Quinn over. “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said. “My oldest brother is a lawyer. Getting through law school and passing the bar is no small feat.”

  “I must admit I’m glad to be past that bit of it.”

  “I hear it’s not much easier as a newly minted lawyer,” James said. “Don’t they expect associates to bill more hours than there are in a week?”

  “They do,” Kavita answered with a laugh. “Making sure I reach my minimum hours keeps me out of trouble. What do you do, James?”

  “I’m a government wonk, like almost everyone else around here.”

  Kavita nodded. “And you, Quinn?”

  “I’m a librarian.”

  “Do you work here at the Library of Congress?” Mrs. Sharma asked.

  “No, so coming here tonight has been a real treat.”

  “A place of pilgrimage for every librarian, I’m sure,” Kavita said with a smile.

  “It is.”

  “Of all the manuscripts here, which was your favorite?” Mrs. Sharma asked.

  “What a great question,” Quinn said, her nose wrinkling in thought. “Each one is stunning in its own way. But I’d have to say—”

  “GRENADE!”

  A brilliant light flashed and an earsplitting bang reverberated through the Great Hall.

  Chapter Six

  Quinn lay flat on the cold marble floor and did a quick inventory of her body. She felt no stabbing pain and could move all of her arms, legs, fingers, and toes. Her relief was short-lived when she realized she was blind and deaf. Heart pounding with fear, she prayed her current afflictions wouldn’t be permanent.

  She remained there, stricken, until the darkness in her vision started to slowly lighten. Her panic subsided further when her hearing began to return. Sound was muffled, like wads of cotton were stuffed in her ears. Still, it was something.

  When she could make out the dark outlines of the stained glass windows in the ceiling, she tried to lever up on an elbow. The room immediately spun and she fell back.

  She was vaguely aware of commotion around her but was unable to make out words or determine what was going on.

  Her mind was a swirling jumble until a single name pushed through the haze.
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  James.

  Terror ripped through her. Was he okay? She rolled onto her side and struggled to prop herself up. Relief flooded her when she saw him upright.

  He helped her sit. His face was riddled with worry when he shouted, “Are you okay?”

  Ears still ringing, she read his lips more than heard his words. She gave him a thumbs-up. “You?” she yelled.

  He nodded and surveyed the room, his jaw set with determination. Eyes on her again, he slid the pistol from his ankle holster and slipped it into her purse. “I’m going to check things out,” he said loudly. “You stay here and make sure Mrs. Sharma and Kavita are okay. Copy?”

  “Copy.” Her shouted voice sounded tinny, which was an improvement.

  He cradled her face with a hand and then scrambled to his feet. He stood still for a few seconds to regain his equilibrium before starting toward the staircase that led to the exhibition hall.

  Watching James carefully pick his way along gave Quinn a chance to assess the scene. It looked like a war zone. The floor was strewn with people. US Capitol Police swarmed the room.

  Kavita pushed herself up.

  “Are you all right?” Quinn asked.

  “What?” Kavita shook her head and pointed at her ears.

  Quinn shouted her question again.

  Kavita nodded and brushed back the hair that had fallen across her face.

  Quinn’s blood ran cold when she saw a still-unconscious Mrs. Sharma. A small pool of blood puddled around her head. Quinn slid over, grabbed her wrist, and checked for a pulse. “Thank God,” she murmured at the throbbing under her fingers.

  “Mummy!” Kavita cried.

  “She’s alive,” Quinn said. “Looks like she hit her head on the floor when she fell.”

  Quinn stood and fought the dizziness. Once stable, she shouted at a policewoman, “Officer! The ambassador’s wife needs medical attention!”

  “Paramedics are on their way!” she called back.

  “Sonia!” Mr. Singh cried. He checked her pulse and examined the serious gash on the back of her head. “We need to stop the bleeding.” He reached up and unwound his turban, revealing the white kerchief covering his hair. Mr. Singh bunched up the long strip of material and said, “Quinn, lift her head.”