A Covert Affair

by Susan Mann

  “Good point. Besides, I had to have something to do to pass the time while I’m stuck outside Captain Sanctimonious’s house.”

  At the reception the night before, Ravi had successfully learned the identities of the Terrible Trio. Captain Sanctimonious was known as Jaswinder Singh. Sachdev Kaur was Miss Pragmatic’s real name. Pink Shirt Guy was Kirpal Singh, a friend of Parveen’s from university.

  “No movement yet?” Quinn asked.

  “Nope, not yet.”

  “What about Ravi?”

  “He tailed Miss Pragmatic to the Golden Temple,” James said. Given the number of Singhs and Kaurs they were encountering, it was easier to use the nicknames Quinn had bestowed on them.

  “Hope something shakes out soon. I’ll give you a call when I’m done here.”

  “Roger that. Good luck and stay safe.”

  “Will do. Talk to you soon. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Bye.”

  Quinn touched the screen to end the call and then immediately turned on the recording app. Before returning the phone to her pocket, she tested the tiny microphone attached to the fake diamond pendant she wore around her neck, compliments of James Bond’s Bag of Tricks. Since she was conducting the interview alone and wouldn’t have a second pair of ears listening, she wanted a backup recording. When she was assured the phone was indeed recording, she slid it into her back pocket and ran her hands over her auburn wig. There was little chance a visit to Deputy Superintendent Dhami by Quinn Riordan would become known by the people who knew her in Amritsar. But since Quinn Riordan had no reason to be asking the kinds of questions she needed answers to, a new cover was created. She was now Elizabeth Hampshire, an American working on her doctoral thesis at Oxford.

  Quinn took a deep breath, exited the Alto, and marched up the walkway. She knocked on the front door before she could chicken out and flee to the safety of the car. The last time she’d met with an older gentleman at his house, she’d fled for her life while bullets zinged past her. Fingers crossed that wouldn’t happen today.

  The door swung open to reveal an older woman. She bowed and said, “Sat Sri Akal. Mrs. Dhami? I’m Elizabeth Hampshire.”

  Mrs. Dhami smiled and nodded. She stepped back and opened the door wider, inviting Quinn in. “Please.”

  “Thank you.” Quinn stepped across the threshold and followed Mrs. Dhami to a sitting room. Deputy Superintendent Dhami rose from his armchair. He wore lightweight tan slacks and a faded blue, yellow, and white plaid short-sleeved shirt. His turban matched the blue in his shirt. Unlike Darvesh Singh, whose beard was white, the deputy superintendent’s was gray. She thought him to be about ten years younger than her grandfather and his friend.

  After he and Quinn greeted each other, he swept a hand toward the small sofa across from him. “Please, sit.”

  She gave the room a quick once-over while he settled back into his chair. Along with the requisite pictures of the gurus hanging on stark white walls, there were a number of framed photos presumably of family members as well as those of the deputy superintendent during his police days.

  Her gaze fell on him. She noted his keen eyes appraising her. It was to be expected. He was a former policeman, after all. She’d have to be at her best to keep him from growing suspicious if she stumbled. Giving him a bright smile, she said, “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”

  “Thank you for traveling here rather than speaking over the telephone. One never knows who might be listening.”

  “I understand completely.” The chitchat seemed strained, so Quinn decided to get to the point. “As I mentioned, I’m working on my doctoral thesis on Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence efforts to destabilize the Indian state of Punjab. In the course of my research, I read that you once said you hated having to fight against the young men of Punjab whose minds were being poisoned by ISI operatives. You’re certain it was the ISI?”

  He steepled his fingers and nodded once. “Yes. Beginning in the early 1980s, the ISI exploited the religious and nationalistic fervor of young men. They armed and trained these young men thirsting for Khalistan. These same young men then assassinated and kidnapped moderate Sikhs they believed were obstacles to their goal. Many of my fellow police officers were ambushed and killed by these pro-Khalistan militants. I myself am lucky to be alive. I was once caught in an ambush and shot in the leg.”

  The conversation paused when Mrs. Dhami came from the kitchen carrying a tray. She placed it on the coffee table and set out teacups and shortbread cookies scattered on a plate.

  “Thank you,” Quinn said and smiled when Mrs. Dhami handed her a cup of tea she’d poured. After Mrs. Dhami handed her husband his cup, she carried the empty tray back to the kitchen.

  “That must have been terrible, losing men at the hands of those who were being manipulated by an outside force,” Quinn said. “And for you to be shot, of course.”

  “Yes, it was a difficult time. The strife and conflict went on for many years.”

  Quinn sipped her tea. “I’ve read the militancy of the 1980s and 1990s has passed and the push for Khalistan is effectively over. Do you agree with that?”

  He tipped his head to one side as he pondered her question. “My answer must be yes and no. Yes, the number of acts of terror has decreased. The majority of us in Punjab are content to remain a part of a united India. But no, it is not over. The ISI continues to whisper into the ears of those most susceptible: the extremists, the disaffected, the bitter. They arm and train. There is always a threat.”

  His words sent a chill racing up her spine. “You believe there are people here in Punjab who, for lack of a better term, you would call pro-Khalistan terrorists?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you know who they are? What they have planned?”

  “I do not. I am no longer in the police service. I do know the ISI. They will never stop.”

  “You believe the ISI is still pushing the idea of Khalistan even today,” Quinn stated.

  “Yes.” He sounded as sure as if she’d asked him if he believed the sun would set later that day.

  As excellent as his thoughts were on Pakistan’s influence in the region, something she would discuss with James and Ravi later, Quinn needed to shift gears and find out what his experience during Operation Blue Star had been. Carefully wading into it, she asked, “Do you believe the Pakistanis were involved in Operation Blue Star?”

  “By fomenting discord and extremism within the Sikh community, yes. They did not send the tanks into the Harmandir Sahib complex. That was the army and Mrs. Gandhi.” The edge in his voice was palpable.

  “Were you there?” She knew he had been, but she needed to get him talking about it. “Did you see what happened to the Harmandir Sahib?”

  “Yes, I saw the destruction that took place,” he said in a quiet voice. “The memories will haunt me until I draw my last breath.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure it was horrible.” She nibbled on a cookie to give him a chance to recover before saying, “I was doing some research at the Sikh Reference Library recently and was surprised at how few periodicals they had published prior to 1984. I mentioned it to one of the librarians, and she told me a fire broke out in the library during Operation Blue Star. The army said it started during the incursion and destroyed its entire contents.”

  With a derisive snort, he said, “That is not what happened.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. The army burned it purposefully, but only after all of the books had been taken away. Only a few remaining newspapers were set on fire to make it appear the library had burned.”

  Quinn set her cup and saucer down and slumped back, feigning shock. “Why would they do that?”

  “They took the things to steal the heritage of the Sikh people, to demoralize and punish us.”

  “How do you know they took the books away?”

  “I saw them.”

  She rocked forward and sat on the edge of her
seat. He was the Punjab Police officer Vikram Gupta had seen at the hostel. “You saw the books after the fire?”

  “Yes. I had been working closely with the CBI, so when I was told to go to the youth hostel on GT Road, I did not question it.”

  “The Central Bureau of Investigation? Sort of like the FBI?”

  “Yes. The hostel had been taken over by the CBI as their base of operations. I was there when the jawans carried in sacks of books.” He shook his head at the memory. “There were so many sacks. I remember one on a table tipped over and some of the books tumbled out onto the floor. One was a handwritten saroop of the Guru Granth Sahib.” His voice trembled with anguish when he said, “It was on the floor.”

  Quinn gasped. It felt like a hand squeezed her heart. She’d witnessed only the day before at the wedding the reverence and care afforded their sacred scripture.

  He straightened in his chair and raised his chin in defiance. “I could not bear to see the Guru treated in such a way. At the end of the first night, I took several of the saroops and a few of the books home. I hid them.”

  “Do you still have them?”

  “No, some time after that, I contacted a member of the SGPC and gave the saroops and books I had taken to him.”

  “That’s incredible,” Quinn said. Something he said previously begged a question. “You said ‘the first night.’ Did you see the books more than once?”

  “Yes. There were a number of us who were ordered to make a list of everything taken from the library.”

  Quinn’s scalp tingled with excitement. “You mean like an inventory?”

  “Yes.”

  “Weren’t there thousands of books? That must have taken a while. Did you finish?”

  “Yes. We worked very hard. We were told we must finish by September.”

  “Why September?”

  “There was to be a convention of Sikh leaders in Amritsar. Those in charge wanted the books to be sent away before then. We put all the books into metal trunks. Then we drove them to an airfield and loaded them onto a government airplane. The CBI flew them to its headquarters in New Delhi.”

  “That’s astonishing,” Quinn said. “So they must still be in New Delhi with the CBI.”

  “Perhaps. It has been many years. They could have been moved again and again. I have not heard anything about them since the day I helped load them onto the airplane.”

  “Yes, of course,” Quinn said. “You and your colleagues were busy protecting the public from terrorists.”

  “Indeed.”

  Quinn thought of the dangers her father and grandfather had faced in working to keep people safe. “Even though I’m not a citizen of Punjab, I’d like to thank you for your service.”

  His eyes glistened behind the lenses of his glasses, clearly touched by her words. “Thank you. It was my honor to serve.”

  Quinn moved her purse to her lap as a signal she was preparing to leave. “I also want to thank you again for speaking with me. This has been incredibly insightful.”

  “I am glad to help.” He smoothed his fingers over the whiskers of his beard. “You may think me an old, conspiratorial fool, but I ask that you do not use my name in anything you write. I do not wish for my family to become targets for reprisals.”

  “Of course,” Quinn said. “You will be known only as ‘a source formerly connected to the Punjab Police.’ Is that acceptable?”

  He dipped his head. “It is.”

  “Brilliant.” She stood, pressed her palms together, and bowed. “Thank you again for your time. And please thank your wife for me for the delicious tea and cookies.”

  He stood and said, “I will.” They walked to the door together and said their good-byes.

  Excited to tell James what she’d learned, she practically sprinted to the car. Once behind the wheel, she took out her phone, turned off the recorder, and called him.

  “Hey, you’re okay,” he said. She heard him blow out a breath and pictured his entire body going slack with relief. “How’d it go?”

  “Great. Have I got a story for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Quinn tracked James’s phone to the center of Amritsar. When she caught up to him loping down the street, she stopped the Alto alongside him and rolled down the window. She ignored the horns blaring behind her and slipped into Hillary the travel blogger’s British accent. “Hey, handsome. Need a ride?”

  “Hey, beautiful,” he said with a wide grin. He matched her accent when he replied, “No, thanks. Why don’t you park in that spot up ahead and walk with me instead?”

  “Will do.” She maneuvered the Alto into the parking space, sprang from the car, and fell into step next to him.

  She scanned the pedestrians ahead of them and spotted the back of the man she assumed to be Captain Sanctimonious. He appeared to be alone and, from his purposeful stride, had someplace to be.

  “I see you’re exploring a new area of the city,” Quinn said, looking up at the mustache and goatee stuck to James’s face. Since his assignment was to tail the very man who the night before had stared into his face and berated him, calling him an immoral horndog, a disguise was warranted.

  “It’s always good to experience as much as we can.” Captain Sanctimonious made a quick left into a restaurant. “I’m glad you had a successful trip to Tarn Taran. Why don’t we chat over a late lunch?”

  James opened the door for her, and the two stepped into a casual dining establishment. It wasn’t particularly fancy. The tables were laminate, the chairs looked like rejects from a middle school cafeteria, and the walls were covered with paneling. Décor aside, the aromas filling her nose made her believe the food would be tasty.

  Only a quarter of the tables were occupied, so they had no trouble locating Captain Sanctimonious. He sat at a table across from another man in a saffron turban and traditional white clothing. Captain Sanctimonious looked as thrilled to be there as a gourmand in a place called Eats.

  Free to sit wherever they chose, James picked a table that gave them a clear view of the two men, but not so close as to trigger suspicion.

  After a waiter handed them menus and left, Quinn took her phone from her pocket, opened the recording app, and set it atop the table.

  James eyed it, picked up his menu, and skimmed it. “Need to be closer, but can’t. Too weird to sit that close.”

  A second later, inspiration hit. She unclasped the necklace with the tiny microphone, tugged it from around her neck, and closed her hand. “I wouldn’t want it to end up under the table on the floor or anything.”

  James glanced up and his left eyebrow twitched. Returning his attention to the menu, he said, “Yeah, that’d be a real shame.”

  She spotted the restrooms and pushed back from the table. “I’m going to the loo, baby. Order whatever you want for me.”

  His head snapped up. “Baby?”

  With a crooked smile, she stood and said, “I thought I’d give it a try. You don’t like it?”

  “I could get used to it.” He might have sounded indifferent, but from the way his eyes twinkled, she knew the truth. He loved it.

  She shot him a wink. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She turned on the recording app and sauntered off toward the restroom. When Quinn was five steps from her target, James cut loose with a timber-rattling sneeze. The attention of everyone in the room, including Captain Sanctimonious and his dining companion, turned toward James. All they saw was a man with shaggy brown hair and glasses clamping a napkin over his face.

  Distracted by James, the two men paid no attention to Quinn as she passed their table. Never altering the cadence of her steps, she tossed the pendant to the floor. It bounced to a stop next to Captain Sanctimonious’s sandaled foot. Microphone now deployed, she kept her eyes fixed on her destination and continued walking.

  Unlike their hotel and the opulent facility where the Sandhu wedding reception had been held, this restaurant only had a traditional Indian toilet. Quinn decided to forgo the challeng
e. She allowed some time to pass by cleaning her hands with a wet wipe.

  Back at their table, she raised her eyebrows in silent question. His answer came in the form of his steady gaze into her eyes and the tiniest dip of his chin. The microphone on the floor was picking up voices.

  “Did you order yet?” she asked and set her purse down on the empty chair next to her.

  “I did. Shahi paneer and thali.”

  “Which is what?”

  “No idea. I closed my eyes and poked at the menu.”

  She nodded slowly. “So we’ll finally be eating goat eyeballs.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but this place is vegetarian only.”

  “Ah, well. One of these times, our dinner will see us coming.”

  A pleased smile bloomed at his hearty laugh.

  James took his phone from his back pocket and held it at arm’s length. “Let’s take a picture before our food comes.” They leaned across the table, put their heads together, and smiled. They did not, however, see themselves on the screen. James had zoomed in on the unidentified man’s face and clicked off several pictures. When they both sat back, James’s thumbs tapped the screen. “That’s going up on Facebook right now.” She knew it really meant “I’m sending these pictures to the agency for facial recognition.”

  A few minutes later, their food arrived. The thali was served on a round metal plate with roti in the middle. Around the edge of the plate were small metal bowls filled with various condiments of different colors and textures. She guessed them to be curries and chutneys but didn’t know for sure. The only thing she was sure of was the bowl filled with rice.

  The large bowl of shahi paneer looked and smelled divine. Cubes of cheese curd were covered in a thick, rich red curry sauce similar to the butter chicken Ravi made for them earlier that week. She tore off a hunk of roti and dug in.

  They were almost finished with their food when James’s phone blinged. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That was fast.”

  “What?”

  “It’s about our new friend. I’ll tell you later.”

  Movement from the two men warned Quinn they were preparing to leave. Her eyes darted to them and back to James. She tipped forward, lowered her voice, and asked, “Do we split up and follow one each?”