A Covert Affair

by Susan Mann

  Annoyance spurted in her middle. “Are you saying he was in on this?”

  “No, I’m not,” James replied in a mild tone. “I’m saying if he was, we would have a hard time knowing for sure, based on his long years of experience. And to be honest, until we find out exactly who’s behind all this, we can’t dismiss the idea he might be involved somehow.”

  “But he was so concerned for Mrs. Sharma,” Quinn said and spun back toward her grandfather. “He even took off his turban and used it to put pressure on her head wound.”

  “I have no doubt Darvesh came to Mrs. Sharma’s aid. And I firmly believe he’s not a part of the conspiracy. But James is right. Until we know more, he’ll remain under suspicion.”

  “He did mention it was his idea to use Sikh soldiers to guard the manuscripts. He was so proud of them.” Quinn dropped her head back against the back of the chair and stared up at a panel of lights in the ceiling. “Now I wonder if it was all part of the plan.”

  “It might have been,” her grandfather said with a hint of defeat. “Hopefully you two will find out more when you get to Punjab.”

  Quinn’s mind began to race. She had so much to do before they left that evening. Her head snapped forward. “Oh! Can you and Grandma take care of Rasputin for me?”

  “We’d be happy to.” His expression turned stern. “You be careful, angel.” Leaning forward, he looked past her to James. A silent understanding seemed to pass between them before he spoke again. “You too, James. When it comes to Operation Blue Star, emotions can run high.”

  She covered his wrinkled hand with hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We’ll be careful, Grandpa. We promise.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Quinn stood with James inside the Sri Guru Ram Dass Jee International Airport twenty minutes outside Amritsar. Named for the fourth Sikh guru and the man who established the village that would grow into the city of Amritsar, the airport—with its burnished white marble floors, chrome surfaces, and a high glass-and-steel ceiling—was a symbol of the modernization of Punjab.

  Her thumb fiddled with the two gold bands on the ring finger of her left hand as she watched bags and suitcases tumble down the chute and slowly travel the long circuit of the baggage carousel. Both rings were different than the ones she’d worn during the Fitzhugh op. The wedding band was significantly wider and the diamond in the engagement ring was larger, commensurate with James’s cover as a member of a successful investment firm.

  James dipped his head and whispered in her ear, “Why don’t you go get the key to the car while I wait for the bags?”

  Her head jerked up in surprise. “Me?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “You’re not afraid I’ll blow this whole thing up before we even get out of the airport?”

  He snorted a laugh. “No.”

  Side-eyed, she looked up into his face and saw no hint of doubt. James was right. Getting the car key wasn’t a big deal. Still, the confidence he had in her made her feel pretty good. “Okay.” She scanned the room and spotted where she needed to go. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She shouldered her way through the crowd and toward the information counter. As she approached, she smiled at the middle-aged woman staffing the desk. Quinn’s confidence ebbed when it was met with an almost hostile glare. Maybe the woman wasn’t a morning person. After all, it was only six o’clock.

  Quinn’s forced smile remained plastered in place. “Good morning. I’m hoping you can help me. A friend left an envelope here for my husband and me to pick up when we arrived. I’m hoping you have it.” Quinn held her breath and waited.

  “What is your name?” the woman asked and pulled open a drawer.

  She exhaled in relief. “Quinn Riordan.” As the woman shuffled through a number of envelopes, Quinn added, “It might have my husband’s name on it, James Riordan.”

  The woman took one from the drawer. “I must see identification before I can give this to you.”

  “Of course.” Quinn handed her passport across the counter.

  After a quick glance, the woman passed it and the envelope to Quinn.

  She smiled and was about to thank the woman in rudimentary Punjabi but changed her mind. She’d studied some basic phrases during one of their various plane flights but feared she might inadvertently tell the woman to stuff a banana up her nose. Instead, she thanked the woman in English and hurried away. She’d practice her Punjabi on someone a little more receptive.

  She returned just as James hauled her suitcase off the carousel.

  A smile brightened his face when he saw her. “Hey! Success?” he asked and set the bag on the floor next to her.

  She waved the envelope at him before she shoved it in her purse.

  They waited only another minute before James’s suitcase made an appearance. Reunited with their belongings, they walked out into the early-morning sunlight. Quinn squinted against the rising sun just above the eastern horizon. She took a deep breath and relished the fresh air after being in airports and airplanes over the previous twenty-four hours.

  James shielded his eyes with a hand and surveyed the parking lot. “What kind of car are we looking for?”

  Quinn took the envelope from her purse, slit open the top with her finger, and removed a small piece of paper. “It’s a red Maruti Suzuki Alto 800. Says it’s parked near a eucalyptus tree. I have the license plate number.”

  “We’ll need it. All of these cars look the same, and half of them are red.”

  “Not everyone can drive a Lotus, car snob,” she said and bumped him with her shoulder.

  He smirked. “I’ve never once heard you complain about the Lotus.”

  “And you never will. It’s the coolest car I’ve ever driven.”

  “Ah, the truth comes out,” James said. He grabbed the handle of his suitcase and started for the closest eucalyptus. Quinn did the same. “You only love me because I drive a cool car.”

  “Yes, yes. You’ve found me out.” Her tone was as dry as the dusty fields surrounding the airport. “It’s all about the car.”

  “Mm-hmm. I knew it.”

  They passed a number of abandoned luggage carts parked haphazardly around the parking lot and arrived at a small red car covered with a thin layer of dust. Quinn checked the string of numbers on the bumper against the ones on the paper. “This is it.” She took the key from the envelope and slid it into the lock. Happily, when she turned the key, no screaming alarms blared and the hatch popped without incident. She lifted it, revealing its small trunk space. “Will the luggage fit?”

  “Probably. If not, I’ll have to strap you to the roof of the car.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  He snickered and loaded her bag. “I’ll pass.”

  “Chicken.” She watched him stow his suitcase and close the hatch with a solid thunk. After handing him the key, she settled into the passenger seat.

  James folded himself into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and looked over at her.

  Quinn brushed her fingertips over the two-day growth of stubble on his jaw. “And for the record, it’s not all about the car.” She dropped her gaze to his lips, leaned in, and gave him a soft kiss. When it grew hungrier, the world dropped away. She was only aware of the heat of their kiss and her pulse thumping in her ears.

  They parted reluctantly and James gave her a wistful smile. “We’d better get going before we have a security officer tapping on our window telling us to move along.”

  She sat back and ran her hands through her hair. “Yeah. The file I read on Indian culture said they’re not big on public displays of affection.”

  James nodded and faced forward again. To her surprise, rather than starting the engine, he put his hand under his seat and removed a holstered pistol. He checked the magazine of the Sig Sauer P226 and slid it back into its holster. “Check under your seat,” he said.

  She brought out a Baby Glock in a leather ankle holster. As James had done, she checked the
magazine. It was filled to capacity.

  She lifted the hem of her jeans and strapped the holstered pistol around her calf. At the same time, James secured his Sig inside his waistband at his hip.

  Seat belts fastened, James asked, “Are you ready for this?” The blue eyes that stared into hers were sharp and probing. “Nerves? Doubts?”

  She held his gaze. “Nerves? Yeah. Doubts? Nope.”

  His head snapped in a nod. “Good.” He turned over the engine and backed out of the parking space. “Time to solve a thirty-year-old mystery.”

  “After we get a little sleep?” During their flight from Dulles to Frankfurt, exhaustion had slammed her and she’d dozed some. She hadn’t slept at all from Frankfurt to New Delhi, instead reading up on Indian culture and etiquette in general and Sikhism in particular. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept more than a couple of hours in a stretch. “I could use a nap.”

  “Me too.” He paid the parking fee at the exit plaza and followed the road toward the main highway to Amritsar. “We’re not scheduled to meet with Ravi Bhatia until later today, so we’ll head for the hotel and see if we can check in early.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  “We do some sightseeing and crash hard later tonight.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” During the Fitzhugh op in London, she learned that powering through the exhaustion and staying awake until reaching a normal bedtime was the best way to adjust. Easier said than done, though. The motion of the car and the mesmerizing effect of the flat farmland rolling past her window seemed to conspire against her, as if determined to lull her to sleep.

  It wasn’t long before the open farmland gave way to an urban landscape. New and renovated buildings were mixed in amongst old, dilapidated ones.

  A few miles later, James wheeled the car into the parking lot of an American hotel chain located outside the city center. Since James was undercover as an American businessman, it made sense they would stay in a corporate setting with corresponding comfort and amenities. Earlier, Quinn had been mildly disappointed when she’d heard they weren’t slated to stay right in the middle of everything. Now, as long as the bed had clean sheets, she didn’t care where they stayed.

  They left their bags in the car and entered the lobby. A young man in a gray hotel uniform and black turban greeted them from behind the desk with a wide smile. The tag on his jacket informed them his name was Manveer. “Good morning. How can I help you?”

  “Hello,” James replied. “We’re James and Quinn Riordan. We have a reservation to stay here starting tonight. We’ve been traveling from the States for the last twenty-four hours and could use a shower and some sleep. Is there any way we could check in early? We’d be happy to pay for an extra day.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Riordan. Let me see what we have available.” Manveer tapped at the keyboard, paused, and typed some more. “All we have available right now is a room with twin beds.” He typed some more. “We do have a suite available, although it is quite a bit more money.”

  “How much more?” Quinn asked.

  “Six thousand rupees a night.”

  James looked at her. “That’s less than a hundred dollars.”

  “That’s not so bad.”

  James asked Manveer, “Does it have a king bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll take it,” Quinn and James said at the same time.

  “Excellent,” Manveer said. He tapped at the keyboard with renewed vigor and completed the transaction.

  At the car again, James unloaded their bags. Quinn watched with interest when he peeled back the carpet and revealed a small duffel bag stuffed in the space where the spare tire should have been. He slung it over his shoulder and flopped the covering back in place.

  “James Bond’s Bag of Tricks?” she asked.

  “Something like that.” He locked the car and looked at Quinn. “Shall we?”

  “We shall,” she said.

  “Are you hungry?” James asked as they exited the elevator and walked toward their room. “We could get something for breakfast.”

  “I’m okay. I just need some sleep.”

  The suite was modern, clean, and thanks to the air conditioner blasting away, cool. The calendar read May, but it was already the hot summer season in Punjab. That amenity would certainly be a blessing when outside temperatures climbed. Quinn was happy to trade ambience for comfort.

  “The man funk I’ve got going on is making my eyes water. Do you mind if I jump in the shower?”

  “Go ahead.” She kicked off her shoes, took her phone from her pocket, and stretched out on the bed. “I’ll check my email to see what the latest wedding crisis is.”

  “You’re a brave soul.” James grabbed some clean clothes and walked into the bathroom.

  She was out cold before he turned on the shower.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Do you have a special secret agent door knock so Ravi knows it’s us?” Quinn asked as she and James approached the flat of CIA officer Ravi Bhatia.

  “Nah,” he said. “That’s too obvious and clichéd. We’ll use a coded greeting.”

  “Oh, and coded greetings aren’t obvious and clichéd?”

  “It’s cutting edge.”

  She shot him a flat look. “Really.”

  “Mm-hmm. I’ll say, ‘What light through yonder window breaks?’ and he’ll answer with . . .”

  “Let me guess. ‘It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.’”

  “See, that’s what everyone would expect,” he said with a glint in his eye. “That’s why the answer actually is, ‘James Bond buys his suits off the rack.’” They stopped and James knocked on the door.

  He kept his gaze forward, clearly trying to keep a straight face. He failed utterly.

  Holy crap. Just when she thought it was impossible for him to be any more adorable, he went and said something like that. Sadly, the door swung open before she could give him a scorching kiss.

  “James! Quinn! Welcome!” a man in his late twenties said with a friendly smile. He stepped back to allow them entrance.

  Quinn and James slipped off their shoes and left them outside the door. A drool-inducing aroma surrounded them the moment they crossed the threshold. As if on cue, Quinn’s empty stomach rumbled.

  Their host closed the door and shook their hands. “Ravi Bhatia. Nice to meet you both.”

  “You too,” James answered.

  “Thanks for inviting us for dinner,” Quinn said. “I hope it’s not an imposition.” Ravi wasn’t particularly tall, no more than five-foot-nine. With thick black hair and dark brown eyes, he was definitely good looking.

  “Not at all. I make a mean murgh makhani. And being here in my apartment will let us talk and not worry about being overheard.” There was no hint of an Indian accent when he spoke. If anything, he sounded like a surfer dude. His loose cotton pants and gray T-shirt with “Stanford” written across the chest only reinforced that impression.

  “We brought dessert,” Quinn said and held up a container. “Gulab jamun.”

  “Oh! Excellent.” Ravi pointed to a spot on the kitchen counter. “You can drop them right there.”

  Quinn did as instructed. While the three engaged in small talk, she surveyed Ravi’s flat. It reminded her of her brother Monroe’s place. It wasn’t a mess per se. It just had a dude vibe to it. It might have been the video game controllers littering the top of the small coffee table. Or perhaps it was the wooden cricket bat propped in one corner. Whatever it was, Quinn liked it. It made her feel comfortable.

  Ravi carried a steaming bowl of food from the kitchen and set it on the table.

  “I don’t know what murgh makhani is,” Quinn said, “but it looks and smells delicious.” The dish might have been included in the file she read on Punjabi life and culture. But given the sheer volume of information, including lists of things in a language she didn’t yet know, she couldn’t recall.

  “You’re in for a real treat. It’s goat ey
eballs.”

  Quinn’s smile remained firmly in place even as she wanted to drop to her knees and unleash a plaintive wail. Instead, she swallowed her revulsion and screwed up her courage. “I’ve never had those before. I look forward to trying something new.”

  Ravi waited a beat before a huge grin broke across his face. “I’m just messing with you. It’s not goat eyeballs. Murgh makhani is just butter chicken.” As he indicated which chairs they should sit in, he added, “And bonus points, Quinn, for not going all squeamish and freaking out when you were told you’d be eating weird food.”

  She heaved a massive sigh and almost wept with relief. “Thanks. But man, that was diabolical.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I read your file and saw that you haven’t finished your formal training yet. I thought I’d throw you a curveball and see how you did.” He nodded with approval. “You passed.”

  “It wasn’t easy.” She turned to James. “Did you know it wasn’t really goat eyeballs?”

  “No. I was standing here wondering if I could swallow one whole, like a big pill.”

  Ravi chuckled while Quinn’s eyes widened and she said, “Yeah. No kidding.”

  Their host spooned some of the shredded chicken in thick red sauce from the bowl onto their plates. Following Ravi’s lead, Quinn tore off a piece of flatbread, which she did remember was called roti, pinched a glob of butter chicken with it, and popped it in her mouth. The melding of the creamy butter, tomato, garlic, onion, and myriad spices with the smoky flavor of the chicken was like nothing she’d ever tasted. An involuntary hum of happiness burbled up. Embarrassed, she dipped her head and muttered, “Excuse me.”

  “No worries. I’m not offended, and I doubt anyone else would be by that either. People are pretty cool with Westerners. Just avoid food that has been in contact with water, you know, like fresh fruits or salads, like the plague.” He picked his bottle of water and saluted them before taking a drink. “You do not want a case of Delhi Belly. No bueno.”

  “Yeah, we’re being careful,” James said and swiped another strip of roti through his butter chicken.