A Covert Affair

by Susan Mann

  Quinn had parked far enough away to remain unnoticed but close enough to see everything. “From the way they’re practically sprinting toward the trucks, I get the feeling Amarjit was successful in convincing them,” Quinn said.

  James used his phone to record the scene. “I’m sure showing up with a priceless saroop didn’t hurt.”

  One of the younger men rolled up the back door, clambered up into the cargo space, and lifted the lid of one of the metal trunks. He stood stock-still and stared at the contents. Time seemed to freeze as everyone looked up at him. Quinn found herself holding her breath as she watched and waited.

  He raised his hands and lifted his face to the sky. Then he took a book from the container and held it up for all to see. He handed it off when one of the men below reached for it. Several more were distributed for inspection. They showed each other the stamp of ownership on the inside covers. Tears pricked Quinn’s eyes when she watched two older men, who she guessed were survivors of Operation Blue Star, bury their faces in their hands. Their shoulders shook as they wept.

  The back door of the other truck was opened and more crates were inspected. The ever-growing crowd meant news of the delivery was spreading like wildfire. A number of phones were held in the air to record the event.

  Quinn noted when two people shot out the door that led to the library and ran for the trucks. “I’m bummed Harbir is missing this.”

  “Check it out,” Ravi said from the backseat. “‘Sikh Reference Library’ is trending on Twitter. And someone is streaming this on Facebook.”

  “Good,” James said. “We won’t have to work very hard to get the word out.”

  Quinn took several sips from her water bottle. The day was beginning to heat up. “Hopefully they’ll release Ambassador Sharma soon. I mean, Khalistan hasn’t happened and probably won’t, but maybe they’ll give up on that point. The library is back. That should count for something.”

  Over the course of the next half hour, they watched the crowd organize and begin to unload the trucks.

  Quinn noticed a tiny woman join the crowd. “There’s Mrs. Kaur, Harbir’s mother.” Happiness bubbled up. “I’m so glad she gets to see this. Her husband worked in the library, and the whole family was caught in the middle of Operation Blue Star.” Her joy was blunted when she watched Mrs. Kaur swipe at her cheeks. “It must be bittersweet for her. It’s great to get the library back, but I’m sure it reminds her of her husband.” The memory of the pain in Mrs. Kaur’s face the day they spoke was like a knife stab in the heart.

  “Do you want to go talk to her?” James asked. “You deserve a chance to enjoy this moment with her, even if she can’t know you were involved.”

  “I’m supposed to stay out of sight.”

  “It’s okay. The crowd is big enough, and she’s standing behind all the cameras. And you two are short. No one will even see you.”

  Quinn huffed a laugh and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. “I’m not short. I’m vertically challenged.”

  James’s immediate response of, “Yes, dear. Whatever you say,” elicited a snicker from the backseat.

  “And yes, I would love to talk to her, but she doesn’t speak English.”

  “I can go with you,” Ravi said.

  James nodded and scrutinized the crowd. “All three of us should go. We can tell her you and I are leaving soon and wanted to visit the Golden Temple one last time.”

  “And while we were here, we heard about the library and wanted to check it out,” Quinn finished for him.

  “Sounds good,” Ravi said.

  They exited the car, circled around, and came up on the crowd as if arriving from inside the complex. They stopped and watched the proceedings a short distance from Mrs. Kaur. Quinn wore her best surprised face when she approached the older woman and said, “Mrs. Kaur?”

  A smile of recognition grew. After Mrs. Kaur spoke excitedly to Quinn, Ravi stepped forward and said, “She said she’s very happy to see you again.”

  Quinn pressed her hands together and bowed. “I’m happy to see her again, too.”

  Through Ravi, Quinn introduced the two men. The sheer delight glowing on Mrs. Kaur’s face when James greeted her told Quinn she heartily approved.

  After Quinn conveyed the story of how they came to be at the Golden Temple that morning, Mrs. Kaur replied through Ravi. “She says she was serving in the langar when she heard about the commotion at the library. She had to find out what it was all about.”

  “You must be thrilled that after all these years the library has finally been returned,” Quinn said.

  “She says she is. She only wishes Harbir was here to see it,” Ravi said.

  “I’m sorry she’s missing it, too,” Quinn said. The concern on Mrs. Kaur’s face had Quinn asking, “Is everything okay?”

  Mrs. Kaur wrung her hands as she spoke.

  “Harbir called her three days ago and said she had some business to attend to and asked her to take care of her two daughters. She hasn’t seen or heard from her since she dropped the girls off.”

  “Mrs. Kaur doesn’t live with Harbir?” James asked.

  “No,” Ravi said. “She lives with Harbir’s older brother.”

  Mrs. Kaur related more information. “Harbir and her husband have been estranged for about a year,” Ravi said. “He became addicted to drugs and disappeared. She’s afraid he contacted Harbir and asked for money or something. She’s concerned Harbir might be in trouble.”

  “Has she contacted the police?” James asked.

  Ravi asked Mrs. Kaur James’s question. “She did. They told her unless there’s a body, there’s nothing they can do.”

  Ravi asked her a question of his own. “I asked her if she knew where the husband is. She said she has no idea. It’s been six months since Harbir heard from him. They think he’s homeless and likely lives in squalor with other drug addicts.”

  Quinn wanted to go to wherever the CIA had stashed Gill and kick him in the head. Instead of trying to find a way to stop the rampant drug use in the area and heal the people caught in its web, he exploited it for his own financial and political gain. The guy was lower than a parasite in a scummy pond.

  “Would she like for us to see if we can find out where Harbir went?” James asked. “That might ease her mind.”

  As Ravi translated James’s question, relief and gratitude overcame the worried expression on Mrs. Kaur’s face. She waved a hand toward the southwest and then the northeast as she replied.

  “Harbir’s flat is that way,” Ravi said with a tip of his head. “She’s asked us to go look around. She left her granddaughters helping in the langar and needs to get back.”

  “We’ll do whatever we can to help,” Quinn said.

  Ravi and Mrs. Kaur had a conversation with more gesticulating toward the neighborhood to the south. It ended suddenly when Mrs. Kaur hurried off toward the door to the library.

  “What’s up?” James asked.

  “She’ll be back in a couple of minutes. She went to get the extra key Harbir keeps in her desk. Apparently, her daughters lock themselves out of their flat on a regular basis.”

  She returned and handed Ravi the key. After bowing their farewells, they crossed the street.

  “Harbir’s place is within walking distance,” Ravi said. He led the way as they shouldered through the crowded street. They walked past open-air stalls selling bright swaths of fabric. The number of people dropped considerably when they pushed past the bazaar and turned onto an alley.

  They walked halfway down the block, past residences marked by front doors next to wooden garage doors.

  Ravi stopped at one such residence and unlocked the door. They filed inside and tromped up a set of stairs. At the top, they stepped into a family room with a sofa and a couple of chairs pointed at a television. It was all modest and tidy. But with the curtains drawn and stale air surrounding them, the room felt stagnant and oppressive.

  “Would it be okay if I opened the balco
ny’s glass door?” Quinn asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” James said.

  Quinn opened the drapes and slid back the door. She wasn’t sure the warm air laden with the stench of diesel fumes and rotting garbage was much of an improvement.

  “I’ll go check the bedrooms,” James said and disappeared down a hallway.

  Ravi sat down at a computer atop a wooden desk in one corner of the room and switched it on.

  Quinn, of course, was instantly drawn to the built-in bookshelves covering a section of wall. While many of the titles were Punjabi, a good number were in English. The majority of books were on Sikhism, Sikh history, the Punjab, and Operation Blue Star. Those subjects weren’t a surprise to Quinn. She did wonder about the numerous books on Hinduism, though.

  Quinn moved away from the bookshelves and searched the family room for any clues as to Harbir’s whereabouts. There were no scraps of paper left out on the coffee table, no blank page on the top of a notepad to rub a pencil over to reveal an impression.

  She picked up and studied a framed photograph of Harbir and her family. It had to be at least a year old, given Harbir’s husband sat next to her. She adjusted her estimate of the photo to being at least three years old when she noted Harbir’s adorable daughters appeared to be around eight and ten years old. Quinn hoped the husband and father would get clean and reunite with them.

  She returned the photo to the table and looked around. Framed pictures on a wall caught her attention. She moved closer and examined the two larger prints first. One consisted of small portraits of the ten gurus. The other featured a lone guru, ramrod straight astride a black horse. He was magnificent in swaths of rich pink and purple fabric. A plume of white feathers was attached to the front of his golden turban by a large jewel. A white bird of prey with wings outstretched sat on his gloved fist.

  Another family photo, its colors faded with age, hung below the gurus. The family consisted of five members: husband, wife, two boys, and a girl.

  Quinn studied it for a moment and then realized the woman in the photo was a much younger Mrs. Rupinder Kaur. That meant the young girl sitting next to her, approximately age eight, was Harbir. The man on the other side of Mrs. Kaur must have been Harbir’s beloved father. Quinn’s brow furrowed when she noted there were two boys, both older than Harbir, standing behind the other three. She distinctly remembered Harbir mentioning she had an older brother, but not two. Maybe Quinn had misheard.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Ravi asked, “Quinn, can you look through the drawers in this desk? Maybe find a phone number or address or something. I’m still wading through the files on the computer.”

  “Sure. I can read whatever’s in English anyway.” She stepped over to the desk and opened the top left drawer. She rummaged through it and found nothing other than a stapler, a box of paper clips, and other assorted office supplies. The next drawer down contained a stack of loose papers and several manila folders. She removed the entire pile and carried it to the kitchen table.

  She shuffled through the top papers first. They were various bills and statements. She slid those off to the side and opened the top folder. Inside, a snapshot lay atop several pages printed from a computer. The photo was of two males. Dark peach fuzz on the upper lip and cheeks of the younger put him at about fifteen or sixteen years of age. Quinn recognized him as the oldest boy from the family photo on the wall. In this photo, though, he was older and stared defiantly into the camera with a Kalashnikov rifle cradled in his arms. Her breath caught the instant she looked at the man next to him. He was in his mid-thirties and wore a blue turban and a bandolier of cartridges across his chest.

  “Bhindranwale,” Quinn said. The golden domes of the Harmandir Sahib gleamed behind them. They were on the roof of one of the buildings inside the complex. The sandbags stacked against the wall directly behind them filled Quinn with foreboding. She flipped the picture over and checked for a date. The hairs on her arms stood straight up. March 1984. It appeared Harbir’s oldest brother had fought, and likely died, alongside Bhindranwale during Operation Blue Star.

  She set the snapshot to the side and glanced through the papers. Each of the four pages featured a printout of a different black-and-white photo. The first was of a number of men in army uniforms standing inside the Golden Temple complex. Based on the damaged Akal Takht behind them, it had been taken soon after the assault ended. She spread the other three papers out on the table and pored over them. Then she saw it. The same soldier, who appeared to be an officer, was in all four pictures. In one, smoke curled up from a cigarette held between his fingers.

  “Holy crap,” she whispered. Harbir’s words rushed into her mind. A soldier who smoked a cigarette inside the complex had beaten her father in front of her and then dragged him away. Could that soldier and the one in the photo be one and the same?

  Quinn stared at the soldier’s face and couldn’t shake the weird feeling she knew it. “Holy crap,” she said again, and jumped to her feet. Her chair tipped backward and crashed to the floor.

  “You okay in there?” Ravi asked.

  She scooped up the pages and ran to show Ravi. Heart pounding, she laid the four pages across the keyboard. “The same army officer appears in all four pictures. Do you recognize him?”

  Ravi bent over and examined each. “I don’t think . . .” He paused and stared up at Quinn, his eyes wide with shock. “Dude. That’s Ambassador Sharma.”

  “That’s what I think, too,” Quinn said. “He’s a lot younger, obviously. But it’s definitely him. I think Sharma is the soldier who took Harbir’s father away. I wonder if Harbir knows that man is the ambassador.”

  “I think I can answer that. Listen to what she wrote in a document I found. ‘Amongst his many titles, Guru Gobind Singh Ji was called the Keeper of the White Falcon. He is often pictured with one. When the army desecrated the Harmandir Sahib, a white baaj circled over it and then perched on a branch.’ Baaj is Sanskrit for ‘falcon,’” Ravi interjected. “‘I and many others like me trapped inside and facing death saw it. It was the Guru telling us he was with us. It comforted us then. Now it is his fierce avenger. I am the Guru’s bird of prey. I am his falcon.’”

  “There’s a picture of a guru with the falcon on the wall over there.” Quinn’s legs almost gave out from under her when all the pieces fell into place. “Her brother, her father, Sharma, the library, the falcon. It’s all tied to her and Operation Blue Star. Harbir is the Falcon.”

  James’s voice called out from another part of the flat. “Hey, guys? You’ll wanna come see this.”

  Ravi sprang from his chair, and the two bolted past two bedrooms to the end of the hall. Quinn stopped and stared into the room. Against one wall was a low workbench covered with spools of wire, a soldering iron, alligator clips, batteries of various sizes, and boxes of ammunition. She eyed what was left of a rectangular block wrapped in black plastic sitting atop the workbench. “Please tell me that’s a block of cheese,” Quinn said.

  “I wish,” James said. “It’s C-4. Harbir made a bomb.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Now what? Based on when she dropped her daughters off with her mother, Harbir has a two-day head start,” Quinn said. “How in the world are we going to find her?”

  “We crawl over every inch of this apartment until we find something,” James said.

  Ravi was already striding down the hallway. “I’ll go back on her computer.”

  “I’ll finish looking through the files,” Quinn said, trailing behind him.

  “I’ll get on the phone with Meyers and get him up to speed,” James said. “The Indian authorities need to be brought in the loop and be on the lookout for her.”

  Quinn snagged the printouts from the desk and walked back to the kitchen. After righting the chair, she sat down and flipped open the next file in the stack.

  Ravi returned to his place in front of the computer, the keys clacking as he worked. A moment later he said, “Classic rookie terro
rist mistake. Harbir never cleared her browser search history.”

  “Despite the fact she’s had an ambassador kidnapped and valuable manuscripts swiped, and fashioned a homemade bomb, I think she’s still more librarian than terrorist,” Quinn said.

  Ravi snorted. “You librarians really stick up for each other, don’t you?”

  “That sounds exactly like something James would say.”

  James walked into the room with his phone to his ear. Apparently on hold, he swung the mouthpiece down and asked, “I would say what now?” After Quinn told him, he smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I’d totally say that because it’s true. You librarians have some kind of secret society—” His head snapped up. “Yes, I’m still here,” he said into the phone and headed down the hallway again.

  “She went to anarchist websites that tell how to make bombs,” Ravi said. “She also did a ton of research on Sharma, not just his background, but also a calendar of the events he’d be attending. No big surprise that she also looked at sites about the exhibition at the Library of Congress.” He paused. “This is weird. She looked at some websites about the sapta puri.”

  “What’s that?” Quinn asked. The folder she’d just examined was a bust. She closed it and pushed it off to the side.

  “Hinduism’s seven holy cities of pilgrimage.”

  Quinn sat up straighter. “Wait a second. Harbir has a bunch of books on Hinduism.” She went over to the bookshelf and scanned the titles. She slid one on Hinduism off the shelf, flipped to the index, and skimmed it for the words sapta puri. “Here we go.” She turned to a map of India that indicated each holy city with a star. Most were in northeastern India. “The closest one to Punjab is Haridwar.”

  “She went to a bunch of sites specifically about Varanasi.”

  Quinn turned a couple of pages to a glossy picture of buildings crowded along the banks of a river. She read, “‘Varanasi in Uttar Pradesh is one of the oldest cities in the world. Built along the Ganges River, it is the holiest of the sapta puri. It is the equivalent of Jerusalem for Christians and Jews, Mecca for Muslims’”—she looked over at Ravi—“‘or Amritsar for Sikhs.’”