by Rafael
CHAPTER 35 Proper Procedure
Flashing police lights illuminated one of Chandrapur’s seedier blocks. Curious onlookers hung from windows, rooftops, lampposts, surprised the officers had taken more than their customary casual attitude toward the lower caste. The city’s homicide division had left their vehicles strewn along the street. Daaruk Kapur pulled up in his own version of that universally recognized cop conveyance—the unmarked car.
In its unknowable brilliance, headquarters had assigned him a rookie they had probably kept tethered to a desk since coming through the academy. Daaruk almost laughed when the neophyte donned aviator glasses. He rolled his eyes, unbuckled, and exited.
A uniformed constable manning the entry point to the six-story residential looked hard at Daaruk’s ID before deciding he needed a higher authority. He signaled the Senior Constable who walked over with palpable disdain. He too stared hard at the badge.
“If I’m not mistaken, Officer Kapur, we’re within India’s national boundaries. Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?”
“The two bodies inside may be part of an investigation I’m conducting.”
“How do you know there are bodies inside?” Daaruk smiled.
“Come now, Constable. I do work for Intelligence.”
“Well, Mr. Kapur, this is a police matter, not Intelligence. Good day to you.”
To Daaruk’s annoyance, his partner made to speak. He extended an arm, pressed back across the young agent’s chest, and rolled his eyes.
“Constable, may I have a word with you please?” The policeman shrugged and stepped off to the side. “I have no desire to embarrass you in front of your men. All I’m asking is a small inter-agency favor. Don’t force me to make a phone call. If I do I assure you, Senior Constable, you’ll receive a call within ten minutes ordering your complete and unreserved cooperation.”
Hard experience had the policeman searching Daaruk’s face for any sign of bluff. He found none. “Cooperation is a two-way street, Officer Kapur. I have two bodies on the third floor. Who are they?”
“We received a request from the CIA for assistance locating a science team who had fled to India in possession of a stolen American project.”
“What kind of project?”
“Unclear. I’m pretty sure not even the CIA knows. But three of their agents died trying to find out. In the course of our investigation we learned a Singapore industrialist, one Nicholas Koh, is also pursuing this project. Our colleagues in Mumbai received a flash alert that two individuals on our watch list had flown in from Australia. Eyebrows rose when we connected the two to the same industrialist. We put a tail on them that they evaded. As you know, eyewitnesses placed the two in the rented apartment where Mr. Ekani Jayaraman emerged shot. I’d like to confirm the men upstairs are the ones who flew into Mumbai.” Daaruk paused. “This information is classified, Constable. I’ve just entrusted my career to you.”
“Follow me, Officer Kapur.” Daaruk did, confident he had developed another well-placed contact within the police department.
They climbed the stairs while uniforms knocked on doors, asking what anyone had seen or heard. The kind of unglamorous grunt work all successful police investigations need. On every floor wide-eyed children stared in awe and wonder. From somewhere the smell of fresh-made chaat dough drifted. The Senior Constable turned right on the third-floor landing and headed for the open doorway at hall’s end. Inside a Head Constable Detective and a forensic specialist moved about. On a couch facing the entrance two Asian men sat, legs and arms sprawled, each with a clean, circular hole centering their foreheads. The Head Constable snapped off gloves and approached the Senior Constable.
“What do you have, Head Constable?” He made to speak but hesitated, glancing at the two strangers. The Senior offered no introduction. “These are friends of mine.”
“We’re in the process of tracking down the lease holder but neighbors say these two appeared about three weeks ago. They left early in the morning and returned late at night. The car they used is parked outside. We should find out any minute who rented it.
There is no sign of forced entrance, no sign of a struggle. The only prints belong to the victims. The apartment is neat, orderly, no indication anything is missing except for their passports and ID’s. A good delay tactic by the killer. Building witnesses report an Indian woman wearing a sari entered about four hours ago and left fifteen minutes later. Two photographed her.”
“What caused them to take pictures?” the Senior Constable asked.
His subordinate extended a mobile device. It displayed a woman emerging from the building’s entrance, her head turned slightly to the side. Daaruk leaned in. “She’s quite the looker.” Both Constables nodded. The detective continued.
“Pending the coroner’s report, I’ve seen enough of them to be confident those bullet holes are from a .22 caliber, a classic assassin’s weapon and one a female can handle with no problem. This woman is no one to underestimate. She not only caught two professionals by surprise, she has to be a dead shot. Hitting one center forehead is hard enough. Only lightning reflexes account for the other.”
“Motive?”
“I’m thinking our friends here were not supposed to shoot the other victim, Ekani Jayaraman. His apartment has clear evidence of having been rummaged through. They wanted information. Killing these two not only leaves a cold trail but sends a message about failure.”
“Who discovered the bodies?”
“Children playing soccer in the hallway. One banged against the unlocked door and fell in.”
“Good work, Constable. My compliments.” He turned toward the two R&AW agents. “Any questions?” Daaruk shook his head.
“I add my compliments to the Head Constable’s thoroughness, a good reflection of your leadership. If you would indulge me, I’d like to take a closer look at our two friends here.”
“Be my guest.”
The agents stepped toward the first corpse, the thin emaciated one. On his communicator, Daaruk brought up a passport photo scanned at the Mumbai arrival gate. He held it alongside the dead man’s face. “What do you think, young man?”
“Sir, I believe there is sufficient similarity to warrant positive identification.” Daaruk rolled his eyes. He straightened and compared another photo to the next one without asking for confirmation.
“Take my number, Constable, and I’ll transmit these photos to you. They’ll hasten your investigation. I suspect the passports are stolen or forged but they are solid leads.” With a nod from his superior, the Head Constable in turn transferred the woman’s photo to Daaruk. “Good luck, Senior Constable, you’ve been a tremendous help. We’ll be on our way.” Hand outstretched, the policeman smiled.
“Now both our heads are on the chopping block.”
“If you have any problems, contact me at the agency. I’ll be happy to clear you.”
They made their way back down, his aviator-shaded partner drawing most of the stares from children and adults. Outside he pitched the keys to the novice who made a deft catch. Daaruk buckled in and leaned back, tried to clear his thoughts. “What’s our next move, young man?”
“Sir, I recommend we return immediately to the office and file our reports.”
Daaruk rolled his eyes.
CHAPTER 36 Downhill Roll
The elevator doors whooshed open as hushed as the soundproofed interior. A female electronic tone softly chimed, “Director of Central Intelligence.” No one raised their voice above a low murmur on the DCI’s floor. Two armed guards gave him a curt nod. Even the Deputy Director could not be on the elevator without having passed through two security checkpoints and then only with the Director’s prior clearance. He fumed on his way down the carpeted hall enclosed by rich mahogany walls. Along the corridor, the DCI’s framed predecessors looked on with glee as another condemned man walked the last mile. Having sought and failed to prevent this exact moment, he paused at the door. Damn Navy, he thought.
Pacific Command had desk-assigned the submarine skipper who broke security and surfaced to assist the penetration team trapped on the Maldivian island. In advance of court martial proceedings they had submitted an official background inquiry request through channels. Though proceeding by the book, Navy brass clearly wanted to give the boat commander’s defense every opportunity to provide mitigating circumstances since the Captain’s actions had saved the lives of four commandos plus Tilka Lon’s. In covering for their own, Pentagon Admirals had thrown him overboard. He inhaled, knocked, and pushed the door open.
The DCI, phone to his ear, pointed to the chair before the oversized desk. His expression and tone did not bode well. “Well, Senator, let me see if I have this straight. You’re pleading to keep a regional office open in your home state while at the same time voting to impose budget cuts on my agency. Oh, and at your press conference after the vote, you stated, hold on let me get this quote right.” He opened a desk drawer and smoothly withdrew a memo. ‘It’s about time this out-of-control agency had its ears pulled back a bit.’”
The DCI examined his manicure while muffled shouts spilled out the earpiece. “I understand your comments were for public consumption. Unfortunately for you, I’m a member of the public. No, Senator. The only thing out of control is the hypocrisy you and your colleagues wallow in. If you want our office to remain open, pay for it. And a kinder tone, for public consumption of course, would also be helpful. Now if you don’t mind, Senator, my ears are feeling a bit pinched. Have a good day.”
His arm formed a slow arc to the phone’s cradle while the Director of Central Intelligence fixed him with a barracuda stare. A long minute echoed the silence. “What the hell is going on in your department, John?”
“Did you read my report, sir?” The silence deepened at having answered a question with a question. Another drawer opened and the DCI dropped a manila folder on the otherwise pristine desktop. “Maybe it was my Texas accent. Let me phrase it differently. What the hell is going on in your department?”
Fifteen minutes later the barracuda stare continued. “And this Janesh McKenzie. Where is he now?”
“Unknown at the moment, sir. We have not yet fully debriefed our agent-on-site, Tilka Lon. He’s still hospitalized but stated McKenzie disappeared into the jungle when the fire fight started.”
“What about these xenoform reports? How much credibility do you give them?”
“I didn’t know what to make of them, sir. You know how unreliable eyewitness statements are. It’s why I didn’t brief you. Tilka Lon’s specific assignment was to get me harder facts.”
“Who is Nicholas Koh?”
“We identified his organization through a chartered freighter, the ChangLi41. It was aboard this ship where we lost our third agent, Ben Wolford. Although he’s at the head of an international conglomerate, Singapore police say he has roots in the Asian underworld and his hands are still in it elbow-deep.”
“And then there’s this Miranda Logan. How the hell did two people with no security clearances get so enmeshed with one of our operations?”
“I remind you, sir. This case began as a low-level investigation into possible misappropriation of funds on a research project we sponsored.”
“Into quantum encryption?” the DCI interrupted.
“That’s right, sir. As a matter of routine we often subcontract civilian expertise. No one had any reason to believe it would balloon into this.”
“What did he do with the missing funds?”
“We’re not sure, sir.” The DCI glowered.
“Um-hmm, let’s see.” The DCI opened the folder and flipped a few pages. His lips moved in silence. “So far while my Intelligence Division is running around with no idea what’s going on, we have 20 civilians dead, 8 police officers, 8 soldiers, 3 agents, plus two unsecured subcontractors no one can find. And in a ridiculous example of pouring when it rains, the US Navy has dropped this fiasco on my lap. Oh, and did I forget to mention there might be a little, green Martian running around?”
“It’s a bird, sir.”
“What?”
“It’s a bird, sir. Reports say it’s huge, feathered, and can fly.” The DCI’s scowl blazed. Palpable anger reddened his ears.
“Is there anything else I should know about, John? Are pigs about to fly out my butt?”
He rose to open the drapes behind him. Jacket open, arms akimbo, he stared through the one-way, bulletproof glass. “I rose through the ranks of this organization. Thirty-three years all told. I thought I had seen and heard it all.” His head did a slow nod. “Until today.” He exhaled a deep breath.
Goddamn it, he wondered. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? The situation had great potential to make laughing stocks of many people and hang the rest off hooks. He didn’t care so much for himself but for the President who had shown great faith in him. At the time, and until today, he remained certain his nomination had been for appearances only. Handicappers had given his chances as a politically unconnected career bureaucrat short shrift. But during the interview the President had seen something in this indecorous, impertinent black man. “I want you to be my Intelligence Director, Bert. It’s the one position where I must know the truth and you won’t have any problem giving it to me.”
Like himself, he felt certain the President hadn’t imagined anything like this. Should he tell the Commander-in-Chief a national security emergency might loom? Announce Earth might have an extraterrestrial wreaking havoc across the planet? That both might be linked to a science project no one knew anything about? What the hell could it be? He felt himself sucked into the same thought process his deputy had fallen into. In order to tell the truth, he needed more facts.
He looked up at the clouds drifting by—indifferent, uncaring. They formed a boundary beyond which Earth-evolved life could not exist. Indeed, most of the universe would kill humans—instantly. And now perhaps the cosmos no longer respected the boundary. If he needed hard facts to tell the truth, thirty-nine bodies told a harsh one.
He returned to his desk. Another long breath escaped as every one of his fifty-eight years dropped into the seat. He appeared a man reconciled to whatever fate had in store for him. “As of this moment, your sole priority is to find the science project. This case began because of it. Finding it is key. I will activate Unit Four. When you find it I will release them. That’s all for now, John.” He watched the door close behind his deputy then reached for the phone to call the White House.
CHAPTER 37 Crossed Swords
Exuberance and joy filled the city’s streets. Colors—rich, deep, vibrant—greeted the eye everywhere. India’s colors—saffron, green, red, yellow, purple—dominated. Elephants trumpeted, horses neighed, camels bellowed. Dancers, singers, acrobats, performers, and splendidly uniformed soldiers marched alongside. Music enchanted the ear and nothing occurred without a smile or laughter. From the world over, people came to witness the city of Mysore gripped in the throes and ecstasy of the country’s grandest festival, Dasara. On its ninth night, the ten-day celebration wound its way toward India’s most renowned and spectacular example of royal architecture, the Mysore Palace, historic home to Maharajahs.
For over four centuries the event commemorated truth’s victory over evil when the goddess Chamundeshwari slew a buffalo-headed demon. She had done so with a sword and as the evening’s shadows deepened anticipation grew. Tonight’s ceremony centered on the Mysore Palace’s royal sword, presented as the symbol and embodiment of Dharma.
“Your discipline is admirable, Mr. Koh.” Nicholas nodded toward the woman strolling alongside. A brief smile acknowledged the compliment. She had caught him off guard once already and he had vowed not to let it happen again. Despite the annoyance he turned back to relish the anonymity her invitation had provided. He could not remember the last time he walked among the public, open and free, without security or advisors.
Nisha Saha’s waist-length ebony hair bundled tight behind her head only enhanced her reg
al and statuesque poise. Sharp, angular features would befit a Nemes headdress worn by the queens of ancient Egypt. She did not walk so much as glided, her limbs and body a coordinated whole, perfectly balanced. Underneath arched eyebrows black, bottomless eyes darted and penetrated, absorbed and comprehended. They blazed with curiosity, the hallmark of intelligence.
A small girl stared at their approach, overcame her shyness, and offered Nisha the ice cream cone that had already smeared her tiny mouth. “Oh you dear, sweet child.” Nisha retrieved a tissue from her bag, bent to dab her clean, and gave her face and hair a parting caress. “No thank you, my little darling.” Nicholas wondered what the beaming mother and awestruck father might say if they knew those same hands had twelve hours earlier assassinated two men.
Jithu Ong had introduced her six hours ago at the rented estate in Hyderabad. She had arrived to collect her fee for removing the two Chandrapur incompetents who had stupidly killed the only solid lead they had to Janesh McKenzie. She had made such an impression he wanted her to stay for dinner.
“I’m sorry but I have a helicopter waiting to take me to Mysore. The festival there is extraordinary.”
“But the festival won’t end until tomorrow.” he urged. “Stay. I am confident you will find the chef here equally extraordinary.”
“Later this evening I will be at an event known only to 813 invitees throughout the world.” She forestalled his question but her eyes twinkled. “I can’t tell you but you can attend as my guest if you’d like.” Despite feeling chagrined his expression had so easily revealed his thoughts, Nicholas welcomed the spontaneous opportunity to be rid of routine.
Already impressed with this charismatic woman, it deepened when it became clear she would pilot the waiting helicopter. Inside the small four-seater, its lightweight composite construction muffled rotor noise as it lifted without effort. She turned with an unsettling grin. “At night it allows me to evade radar and land almost anywhere.”