by Susan Mann
“I’m so sorry,” Quinn said quietly. “I had no idea. You don’t have to say any more.”
“The fact you have never heard these things is the reason why I must tell you,” he replied. “Three thousand Sikhs were murdered in Delhi over the course of the next four days. Some say the number was many times that. I was fortunate.”
“You were there? In Delhi?” Ravi asked.
“Yes. I was at university. Some of my Hindu friends hid me during the worst of the riots and killings. The violence was suppressed once the army was called in to patrol the streets.”
“The police couldn’t control the situation?” James asked.
“In the areas with the worst violence, they were either afraid to do anything or turned a blind eye. Since then, it has become known that political operatives within Mrs. Gandhi’s party fomented much of the rioting.”
“What a nightmare,” Quinn said. “Things must have been tense around here for a long time after that.”
“For years after, militants on both sides carried out various assassinations. Sikh militants used Operation Blue Star and the riots after Mrs. Gandhi’s assassination as proof that the Hindu majority hated Sikhs. They called for the establishment of a separate Sikh homeland of Khalistan.”
“Are there groups that still want that?” James asked.
Mr. Sandhu smoothed his thumb and forefinger over his mustache as he considered the question. “The militants who perpetrated acts of terrorism in the years after Operation Blue Star have been arrested and their groups disbanded. Still, there are those here in Punjab who agitate for Khalistan and protest Indian rule. Trouble usually arises at the observances of the anniversary of Operation Blue Star. Most of the support for Khalistan now is not in Punjab but comes from the Sikhs in the UK and North America. Most of us here are prosperous and happy. We live in peace with our Hindu neighbors. I even have a friend whose brother was a jawan, a soldier in the infantry, who was in the battle at the Harmandir Sahib. I hold no ill feelings toward him or his brother. We have moved on.” Sandhu turned to Ravi. “You yourself have seen what friends Ashwin Gupta and I are.”
“It is true. Mr. Gupta has come to the office many times. You always enjoy each other’s company.”
Quinn immediately picked up on Mr. Sandhu’s offhand remark. They needed to find and talk to Ashwin Gupta’s brother.
She also found the bit of information about the Sikh diaspora feeling the lingering injury of Operation Blue Star most extremely interesting. Perhaps they were the most aggrieved over the loss of the materials from the Sikh Reference Library as well. The abduction of the ambassador and the manuscripts had taken place in the United States. And the only suspect they had any information on had lived in California for over two decades.
So far, the only connection between what happened at the Library of Congress and India was the lost Sikh Reference Library. But at least they had a new lead to follow.
Their food arrived, and as they ate, the conversation turned more convivial. Quinn mentioned visiting the Sikh Reference Library in passing, to which Mr. Sandhu laughed and said, “Of course you did!” He made no further comment about it, and soon the topics of Operation Blue Star and the Sikh Reference Library were left behind for off-season cricket news and the impending release of the latest American blockbuster movie in India.
Over the course of the next three hours, they consumed an impressive amount of Chinese food.
After dessert and tea, Mr. Sandhu glanced at his watch. “It is late and I must get home.”
“I hope your wife isn’t annoyed with you for not helping with the wedding details this evening,” Quinn said.
“Bah! She was glad to have me out of the way. My part comes when it is time to pay the bills.” As if to make his point, Mr. Sandhu tossed a wad of rupees on the table to cover the check.
They exited the restaurant and stopped to say their good-byes in the same place they’d met.
“James, I will not be available to see you and Quinn on Saturday. I have the honor of attending Mr. Sandhu’s son’s wedding. Gopal is a friend of mine,” Ravi said.
Quinn hid her confusion at his out-of-left-field statement.
“That’s okay,” James replied. “Quinn and I will find something to do. Maybe we’ll go check out the Gobindgarh Fort.”
Mr. Sandhu’s eyes snapped from Ravi to James. “No. You will come to my son’s wedding.”
“Oh, that’s very kind, but we couldn’t impose,” Quinn said.
“It is not an imposition. I insist you join us in celebrating my family’s happiness.” His eyebrows lowered and his tone was stern. “You will attend.”
“We’d be honored,” James said. “Thank you.”
“We look forward to it,” Quinn added.
“Brilliant. Now I really must be going.” Mr. Sandhu shook hands with each of them, strode off down the hall, and disappeared around the corner.
“How about heading to the lounge for a drink?” James asked.
“Sounds good to me,” Ravi answered.
Quinn shrugged. The first thing she wanted to find out was why she and James were suddenly going to Gopal Sandhu’s wedding. “I’m game.”
The ground-floor lounge was dim and sparsely occupied. They easily found three low armchairs grouped around a small table in a corner. Innocuous jazz music played softly in the background.
Ravi sipped his martini and set it on the table. Leaning back, he crossed his legs and took on an air of absolute leisure. “I hope you don’t mind that I finagled an invitation for you two. The guy knows everybody. In a setting like that, I thought we might be able to sniff out any rumblings or rumors.”
“It’s a great idea in theory, but I don’t know how it will go in practice,” James said. “Quinn and I don’t exactly speak Punjabi. It’s hard to pick up intel when you don’t understand what anyone is saying.”
Quinn shot him a faux affronted look. “Speak for yourself. I know at least a dozen words.”
James grinned and winked at her. “Yes, dear. You’re practically a native speaker.” He lifted his pint of dark porter from the table and, after downing a swallow, offered it to Quinn.
She snickered and resisted the urge to plant a kiss full on his lips. Instead, she took the glass and tasted his porter. Nodding with approval, she took a couple more swigs before returning the glass to its coaster. It was good, but she liked her chocolaty brown ale better.
“Fair point,” Ravi said. “You may not be able to eavesdrop much, but I’m sure there will be some people who speak English. You might have a conversation or two that turns something up. You never know. Look what happened tonight.”
“True,” James replied.
“Aw, crap,” Quinn said. “I just realized something. I have no idea what I should wear to a Sikh wedding. Should it be something I’d wear to a wedding back home and stick out like a sore thumb? Should I try to blend in?”
“I hate to tell you this, sweetie, but with your blond hair and blue eyes, you’ll stand out no matter what you wear.”
“James is right,” Ravi said. “Trying to blend in is pointless. But showing respect by dressing like the other women might earn you an A for effort. You’ll also appreciate the lighter-weight material in the heat.”
She thought of the women she’d seen wrapped in yards of fabric. Terror gripped her very soul. “I have no idea how to wear a sari.”
Ravi snorted and shook his head. “You don’t want to. Wrap it wrong and you’ve got yourself a major wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen.”
Quinn groaned. “So not good.”
“The good news for Indo-American relations is that you don’t have to wear a sari. You can wear a salwar kameez. It’s loose pants and a long tunic. Most women around here wear them.”
“I know what you mean. I’ve seen those everywhere. I can do pants,” she said. When she heard James chuckling, she looked at him side-eyed. “Hush, you.” At the confusion on Ravi’s face, she said, “Dresses and I
have a very prickly relationship.”
“Ah.” His face cleared. “You don’t want to wear a dress anyway. You’ll be sitting on the floor during the ceremony. You’ll be a lot more comfortable in a salwar kameez.”
“Sold,” Quinn said. Her head dropped back against the top of her chair. She stared up at the ceiling and grumbled, “Now I have to go shopping.”
“We’ll go after Ravi and I get back from checking out the solar arrays Sandhu wants to show me tomorrow,” James said.
Quinn lifted her head and looked at him. “You’ll go with me?”
“Are you kidding?” Even in the dim light she saw his blue eyes flash with amusement. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the backup,” she said. “While you’re out with Sandhu, I’ll try to track down Ashwin Gupta’s brother. A firsthand account from a jawan might shed some new light on the subject.” She turned to Ravi. “Do you know his first name?”
“No. Until a little while ago, I didn’t know Gupta had a brother. Ashwin’s around the office and I’ve talked to him a couple of times, but that’s it. Sandhu and I don’t exactly move in the same social circles.” Ravi took another sip of his drink. “If we do get a chance to talk to Gupta’s brother, we need to tread lightly. It’s hard to know how he’ll react if we start asking about Operation Blue Star. He might be proud of his service and brag about it. He might clam up.”
“His reaction is academic at this point. I have to find the guy first.” As soon as the words passed her lips, her brain began to buzz with possible ways of doing just that.
James raised his glass and saluted her. “And there’s that beautiful bloodhound look I’ve seen many times before.” He glanced over at Ravi and said, “That seals it. There’s no doubt in my mind. She’ll find him.”
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, while James, Ravi, and Mr. Sandhu visited solar arrays, Quinn worked on tracking down Ashwin Gupta’s brother. After research into exactly which infantry division was at the Golden Temple in 1984, Quinn called her grandfather and asked for his help. He could pull more strings than anyone she knew. Two hours later, he called back and informed her that Vikram Gupta, formerly of the Ninth Infantry Division of the Western Command, lived in Ludhiana, a city two hours southeast of Amritsar. Some expert social-media sleuthing then informed her he currently worked at a tire store. A quick phone call to Kapoor Tyre Emporium assured her Vikram was working that day.
As soon as James returned from his solar array tour, he and Quinn set off to the salwar kameez shop Mr. Sandhu had recommended. When they first entered and approached the shopkeeper, Mr. Kumar, he was clearly wary of the Americans. But once James mentioned that Quinn was in need of attire appropriate to attend Gopal Sandhu’s wedding, the man became far more solicitous. Quinn also noticed a bead of sweat spring up at his temple and trickle down the side of his face. She wondered if uttering the name “K. S. Sandhu” was the Amritsari equivalent of a character in The Godfather saying, “Don Vito Corleone sent me.” Either way, an hour later, beautiful royal blue material was chosen and measurements were taken with the promise Quinn’s salwar kameez would be sewn and ready the next day.
Now she sat in the passenger seat of the Alto, staring at the map on her phone and directing James as they navigated through midafternoon traffic.
“I still think I should have bought you that fabulous purple kurta,” Quinn said without looking up. “The black-and-white embroidery down the front was exquisite.”
“It was. But according to Ravi and the woman who took your measurements, only the bridegroom and his attendants wear those long tunics. The rest of the men wear Western suits.”
“Turn right at the next major street,” Quinn said.
He did.
“It’s up ahead on the left in a quarter of a mile.” A crooked smile spread when she looked over at him. “Who says you’d be wearing it to the wedding? Maybe I just want to buy you something pretty.”
“In that case, maybe we should get it.” His voice turned husky when he added, “I could wear it and then, you know, not wear it.”
She went momentarily cross-eyed. “Done.”
A tenth of a mile from their destination, James pulled onto a side street and stopped. “Let’s do this,” he said.
They both jumped out and hurried to the back left tire. James plunged a screwdriver into the tread while Quinn pressed down on the valve stem with a key. Air hissed as the tire deflated.
Once it sat flat on the asphalt, Quinn stood and eyed the Alto. “Perfect.”
James drove the last bit as fast as he dared. Even in that short distance, horns blared at them from behind. Quinn had already learned, though, that was normal on the congested roads of Punjab.
James wheeled the wounded car into the drive at the front of the shop and cut the engine.
“I hope Vikram hasn’t gone home early,” Quinn said. “Otherwise, we just murdered a tire for nothing.”
“If that’s the case, we’ll stay in Ludhiana as long as it takes for us to talk to him.”
They hopped out of the car and were immediately approached by a man in his late twenties, the same as them. He took one look at the car and said, “We are at your service.”
Quinn smiled at the man who could not possibly be Vikram Gupta. For one thing, Vikram was in his fifties. For another, this man wore a beard and turban. He was clearly Sikh. Vikram was not.
“Thank you,” James said. “Something punctured it about a mile back. We’re lucky to have found a tire place so close.”
The man smiled. “Then we are lucky as well.”
While James and the man examined the flat and discussed tire size, Quinn surveyed Kapoor Tyre Emporium. The open repair bay sat next to a glass-fronted showroom prominently displaying assorted alloy wheel rims. Rectangular painted signs proclaiming the various American and Japanese brands sold there hung on the edifice above. A car repair shop that dealt in silencers, which she quickly realized were what Americans call mufflers, and an auto parts retailer bookended the tire store.
Through the showroom glass, Quinn spotted a man with short gray hair and a mustache sitting behind a tall counter. Vikram Gupta, she presumed.
“James, I’m melting out here. I’m going inside and hope the air is a little cooler.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Inside, the air was only slightly cooler and heavy with the unmistakable smell of new tires.
“Good afternoon, miss.” The man behind the counter stood and adjusted his glasses. The lower buttons of his light blue dress shirt strained against his paunch. One deep breath and they’d pop off and fly across the room.
“Good afternoon. My husband and I are glad we found your store so we didn’t have to drive far on the rim.”
“We are pleased to assist you with all your tire needs.” The ring of an unseen phone drifted up from behind the counter. “One moment please.” He lifted the handset and spoke. She caught the words “Kapoor Tyre Emporium” and “Gupta.”
Bingo.
Quinn listened to his side of the short conversation, of which she only understood tire brand names.
He hung up the phone and said to her, “We sell many American brands here.”
Quinn glanced at the stack of Bridgestones in one corner. “I can see that. We’ll probably buy something that’s not terribly expensive since it’s just a rental.”
“You do not want an inferior tire if you will be doing more driving.”
“That’s true. And we will be.” Quinn gave him her best, most disarming smile. “My husband is here on business, so I tagged along. We’ll be traveling all over.” She wanted to get him talking about himself, so she asked, “Have you always worked in tires?”
“Yes, ever since I was a young man.”
He didn’t exactly deny being in the army, but he didn’t mention it either. She needed to prod him. She wandered over to the stack of tires and poked a finger at th
e thick, pristine tread of the top one. “My dad is about your age. He’s a Marine back home. Were you ever in the army?”
His features hardened and his left eye twitched. “No.”
Crap. He was clamming up, just as Ravi had said he might. She couldn’t allow him to brush her off like that. Time to rattle him, get him off balance.
“My husband and I were just in Amritsar. The Golden Temple is incredible. It’s a shame about what happened to it in the 1980s with Operation Blue Star and everything.”
He glared at her and said, “Excuse me, please. There is something I must take care of.” Before she could say another word, he flung open the door between the showroom and the service bay and stalked out.
She followed him out and glanced to her left. James and the first man had not moved. The tire guy was in full sales-pitch mode.
At a loud, metallic clank, her head snapped to the right. She caught a glimpse of Gupta’s back as he disappeared out a back door. Quinn sprinted after him.
She burst into a narrow dirt alley and spotted him to her left.
She took off after him. The distance between them closed quickly since his gait was more of a fast waddle than actual running.
“Vikram! Stop! I just want to talk!” She needed to gain another couple of yards on him and she could—
He abruptly pulled up, spun around, and brandished a two-foot-long tire iron like a sword. “How do you know my name?”
Quinn skidded when she tried to stop, the grit slippery beneath the soles of her sandals. Her arms flailed and she fell hard on her butt. A shock wave of pain rippled up her spine.
His face filled with malice, Gupta lifted the tire iron over his head with both hands and advanced on her. “Leave me alone!”
Quinn tried to crabwalk backward. Her eyes widened as the makeshift weapon sliced through the air toward her face.
She rolled to the side.