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The Dalliance of Leopards

Page 7

by Alter, Stephen;


  “My parents still haven’t figured things out,” said Poonam. “They came to visit last week, and it was like … okay, so you’ve got a baby. How did this happen?”

  She poured Luke another glass of wine, laughing.

  “To family.” Luke raised his glass. “Whatever that means.”

  Poonam and Ruth had been partners for almost eight years. They’d met in graduate school in New York. Back then, Luke didn’t have much to do with his sister, because of their age difference. He was in Pakistan most of the time, working for Reuters. When their father died of a stroke soon after retirement, shared loss had brought them closer. Yet Luke would never have guessed his sister was a lesbian until she phoned him in Rawalpindi one morning, a long distance call with a disturbing echo. “I wanted you to be the first person to know,” she said. “I’ve got a girlfriend. She’s from India. Her name is Poonam.” On the phone, Luke had tried to be supportive, letting Ruth do most of the talking.

  “So, Nina’s almost a month old?” Luke asked, glancing across the table at Poonam.

  “Three weeks and two days,” Ruth said.

  “Was it an easy birth?”

  “Eight hours of labor. Poonam was awesome. The midwife couldn’t believe this was her first delivery.” Ruth blew on her soupspoon to cool it down.

  “What’s it like being parents?” said Luke. “Has she turned your lives upside down?”

  “Not yet,” said Poonam. “We’re lucky. Nina sleeps most of the time. A very calm baby. Even when she cries it’s only a whimper.”

  She and Ruth both worked from home, running an online business they started as soon as they got out of graduate school. Luke had never completely understood what they actually did. It was some kind of computerized accounting system for insurance claims that made them enough money to buy this house and live comfortably together. Being self-employed gave them the flexibility to live in the country, a cheaper, cleaner, simpler way of life than being in New York or Washington. Earlier, he’d been worried about them moving to West Virginia.

  “Aren’t those rednecks going to lynch you?” he’d asked.

  “No, everybody’s pretty cool about it,” Ruth said. “And those that don’t approve, they just ignore us.”

  Sometimes Luke wished he had his sister’s optimism. He was always looking at things from a negative perspective, while she seemed to approach things positively and get whatever she wanted out of life.

  “So, here’s to our service provider!” Ruth said, lifting her glass. It was a joke between the three of them.

  Luke shook his head and Poonam laughed, self-conscious for a moment. Paternity wasn’t something he had prepared himself for, though Ruth had persuaded him to become the biological father of their child.

  “I know I’m asking a lot,” she’d said. “But it would mean so much to me and Poonam, if you agree. Please, Luke, it’s a whole lot better than finding some anonymous donor. And, besides, it gives me a genetic link.”

  At first he refused, unwilling to get tangled up in his sister’s relationship, but then he realized this was the only family he had. His own brief marriage had ended three years ago, partly because his ex-wife had wanted children and he didn’t. The contradictions in his life were overwhelming. Last May, when he was in the US on work, Luke had visited Whitman for a week, having finally agreed to the plan. There was a fertility clinic in a town ten miles from where Ruth and Poonam lived. They had made the arrangements, and all he had to do was go there, fill out a lengthy questionnaire, sign consent forms, and then deposit his semen, as if it were some kind of research experiment. At first he felt strangely detached and a little embarrassed by the whole process, but in the end Luke was surprised how pleased he’d been when he got an email six weeks later saying Poonam was pregnant.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Luke heard the baby start to cry. Ruth went upstairs as Poonam began to clear the dishes. When Luke stood up to help her, she put a hand on his shoulder and shook her head.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll do it.”

  A few minutes later, Ruth came down with Nina. The baby’s eyes were wide open, and she stared at Luke with a dazed expression. Until now, she had been just a name and a few photographs attached to emails, but seeing Nina in his sister’s arms startled him. She had honey blond hair, and her skin was a caramel color.

  “Do you want to hold her?” Ruth asked.

  “Not just yet,” Luke said. “Let me get used to this.”

  By that evening, however, he was sitting in the living room with Nina nestled in his lap. Poonam and Ruth were working in their office next door, with an array of computer screens and wires snaking across a hardwood floor. The jet lag and a comfortable hominess made him sleepy. Several of the pictures on the walls had belonged to his parents, watercolors of the Salt Range by a Pakistani artist. He also recognized the Afghan carpets on the floors from their home in Taxila, some of the few things his father had brought to the US from Pakistan when he retired. Their mother had died in a car crash on the road from Murree to Islamabad, back in 1989.

  Hearing a phone ring, Luke was shaken out of his reverie. Poonam answered in the other room. A minute later, she came in with the cordless handset.

  “For you,” she said with a puzzled frown.

  Outside the windows it was already dark. Luke handed Nina to her mother and took the phone cautiously.

  “Hello, this is Luke.”

  Fletcher’s voice shook him awake. He wondered how they knew where to find him but didn’t ask.

  “Are you near a TV?” Fletcher asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Go to the news. CNN or any channel with international coverage.”

  Luke found the remote and pressed the power button. Switching channels, he could hear Fletcher chewing, eating something on the other end of the line. Finally, he found the news. The first image he saw was barren mountains, somewhere in the Hindu Kush, and a house in a village that seemed to have collapsed. Somebody was lifting rocks and throwing them aside. Across the bottom of the screen was the Breaking News:

  EARTHQUAKE IN NORTHERN PAKISTAN, HUNDREDS FEARED DEAD.

  Fourteen

  The unmarked bungalow on Aurangzeb Lane was hidden behind high walls topped with razor wire. Afridi stayed here often enough that one of the suites was specially equipped to give him the independence he required. The older he got, the more he resented leaving home. Between the pollution and politics in Delhi, there wasn’t much that you could see or breathe or hear that didn’t compromise a person’s physical and mental health. At least his suite opened onto an enclosed garden of cana lilies and a bougainvillea vine that was coming into bloom. By the time he settled in and ate a light lunch, it was midafternoon, much too warm to go outdoors.

  Manav Shinde had sent across the files he had requested. Two sealed boxes contained the relevant documents up until 1989, after which almost everything had been digitized. Afridi looked skeptically at the single CD with the more recent correspondence and reports. Ordinarily, none of this information would have been permitted to leave RAW’s archives, but exceptions were always made for Afridi.

  After their meeting with the defense secretary, Shinde had accompanied him back to the guesthouse. Afridi noticed that Manav was unusually silent.

  “Something’s bothering you,” Afridi said when they were alone in the suite, with the doors closed.

  Manav had removed his glasses, wiping the perpetual bleariness from his eyes.

  “Are you sure about this?” he finally said. “We’re not just chasing some fictitious phantom who exists only in the minds of paranoid analysts?”

  “You’re suggesting I’m paranoid?” Afridi smiled.

  “No,” said Shinde, obviously uncomfortable, as if he were betraying the trust between them by questioning Afridi’s judgment. “I’m just saying we have no proof that Guldaar represents the kind of threat you’re suggesting. He’s more of a myth than a man.”

  “If we knew all about him,” said Af
ridi, “he wouldn’t be as dangerous as he is.”

  “Still, the evidence is very thin, if nonexistent,” said Shinde. “More rumors than hard facts.”

  “Unfortunately, we’re in a business that operates on rumors and guesswork,” Afridi replied. “Our job is to uncover the truth, no matter how obscure it may be, especially if it’s hidden beneath a web of lies.”

  Manav shook his head. “This woman, Daphne Shaw. She called you out of the blue. It doesn’t make you suspicious?”

  “Of course it does,” said Afridi. “But that’s exactly why I’m curious. Coincidence almost always indicates conspiracy.”

  “Imtiaz, I’ll be honest with you. This time, I think your instincts are wrong,” said Shinde. He was one of the few people who used the colonel’s first name. “But, frankly, that’s less of an issue. What worries me more is that there are those who might turn this against you. Several of our senior colleagues would like to shut down the Himalayan Research Institute. If they could embarrass you—”

  “Very little embarrasses me,” said Afridi.

  “I know,” said Shinde. “But if we antagonize the Americans and if it comes out in the press that you are pursuing a target who doesn’t exist, HRI will have its budget cut in half, if it isn’t closed down completely.”

  “I’m aware that some of our colleagues would like to see me fail,” Afridi answered, “but that isn’t sufficient reason to give up an opportunity to uncover the greatest threat to peace in South Asia since Pakistan tested its nuclear bomb.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Manav replied. “It isn’t like you to jump to conclusions when you haven’t got the facts in front of you.”

  Afridi laughed. “It’s a process of deduction, like establishing a scientific proof. First you begin with a hypothesis and then you develop a theory. It requires patience and disciplined reasoning, but you have to visualize the big picture, even if it isn’t there in front of you.”

  “But you’re suggesting a conspiracy on a scale that defies logic,” said Manav. “How is it possible for one man to wield so much influence?”

  “I’ll give you an example,” said Afridi, turning his wheelchair toward the window, as if he could see something outside in the garden. “The houbara bustard.”

  Shinde looked baffled and shook his head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Last year, thirty-three permits were issued by the Pakistan government for hunting houbara bustards in Punjab, Sindh, and Baluchistan provinces. The list of foreign hunters in whose name these licenses were granted includes virtually every Arab head of state, from the Emirs of Kuwait, Qatar, and Dubai to the Saudi crown prince. Of the thirty-three permits, twenty-eight were facilitated and organized through one company, Shikar Outfitters and Associates, which has its registered office in Dubai. This company handles all of the necessary formalities in Pakistan, where bustard licenses are issued by a special desk in the prime minister’s office. SOA also organizes the hunts, supplying everything from air-conditioned luxury tents to reconnaissance aircraft and special radar facilities to locate the birds.”

  “What’s so special about a houbara bustard?”

  “The Arabs believe their meat is an aphrodisiac, particularly the liver of a male houbara. It can sell for as much as ten thousand dollars an ounce. The birds are severely threatened, in danger of extinction. They’ve been virtually wiped out in Arabia. Every winter, flocks of houbara migrate from Central Asia to Pakistan. The sheikhs are permitted to set up their hunting camps and licensed to kill a hundred birds each year.”

  “Do they shoot them?”

  “No, they use falcons. Theoretically, the hunters aren’t permitted to use firearms, though it’s hard to believe they don’t resort to shotguns or rifles once in a while. Each expedition has a liaison officer who’s supposed to oversee the hunt, but it doesn’t take much to buy them off, and you can be sure the Arabs kill more than their quota. The politicians are all in their pockets. Many of the sheikhs have refrigerated containers that are flown back home every day with the dressed carcasses of birds. It’s like a factory, and Shikar Outfitters makes it all happen.”

  “For a fee?”

  “Of course. But who can put a price on an emir’s libido?”

  “Who owns Shikar Outfitters?”

  “That’s the billion dollar question. It’s difficult to get details on any business registered in Dubai because there’s usually an Emirati promoter along with other investors whose identities are discreetly obscured. Whatever names appear on the official documents are usually fictitious. But we have been able to trace things down to a holding company called Khyber Transport, which handles imports into Afghanistan, one of the major logistics companies in the region. Our intelligence confirms that Guldaar started this company twelve years ago, and he built it up with a complex structure of subsidiaries and diversified interests that keep his identity concealed. Shikar Outfitters is just one of dozens of companies that are part of his empire.”

  “So, a rare bird is going to become extinct because of the sexual inadequacies of Arab sheikhs? It’s unfortunate,” said Shinde, “but that doesn’t add up to a threat to world peace.”

  “Shikar Outfitters’ profits are secondary to the influence they wield. The hunting licenses are diplomatic favors, and those who arrange them seek other kinds of rewards. Access to those sheikhs is priceless. The cost of these hunting expeditions run into millions of dollars. Special planes carry the falcons, flying them in from the Gulf. You can’t imagine the excess and extravagance of these hunts. Last year, one Emirati royal had a dozen Porsche Cayenne SUVs flown in for ten days, just so he could race around the countryside searching for the birds. They use satellite telemetry to track the migration. More time and effort is expended on finding houbara bustards than the Americans spent searching for weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.”

  Shinde still looked unconvinced. Afridi wheeled himself across the room and produced an envelope from a pile of papers on his desk. Opening it, he handed over a sheaf of photographs.

  “These were taken this winter, about three months ago, 22nd January, in central Punjab near the Khushab Nuclear Facility. It’s a popular hunting area for bustards and attracts several thousand birds each year. The hunting permit was issued to one of the senior members of the royal family of Qatar, but as you can see from these photographs, the guest list included a number of other dignitaries, all of whom seem delighted to be posing with falcons on their wrists. We can assume that they weren’t just hunting at Khushab. The dignitaries were taken on a tour of the uranium enrichment facility. Of course, we couldn’t get any pictures from inside, but you can be sure the Pakistanis took good care of them.”

  “Is Guldaar in any of these pictures?” Shinde asked.

  “No. We have no recognizable images of him, and he isn’t likely to have been there. He prefers to remain out of sight.”

  “Who’s this?” said Manav, picking up a photograph of a blond-haired man grinning at the camera, with a falcon perched on his arm. He was standing between the CIA director and Pakistan’s chief of army staff.

  “Roger Fleischmann. CEO of Peregrine,” said Afridi.

  Manav registered the name. “The same Peregrine that manufactures the drones?”

  Afridi nodded. “Standing behind him is Jehangir Daruwalla.”

  Again, Manav recognized the name.

  “How is Peregrine mixed up in this?”

  “Guldaar seems to have been negotiating on their behalf, part of a CIA arms deal with Pakistan. He often uses Daruwalla as a go-between, his personal emissary and troubleshooter. Peregrine is hoping to get a contract to equip Ghazni missiles with an updated remote guidance system, but the Pentagon has been dragging its feet because the Pakistanis haven’t been cooperative on other fronts.”

  Manav’s eyes shifted behind his glasses, and Afridi could tell that he was beginning to understand the consequences

  “Where did you get this information? These photographs?” Shinde deman
ded. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

  “Qasim sent them to me three weeks ago, from Islamabad,” said Afridi.

  “Why didn’t they come through our regular courier?”

  “Because I asked him to send them to me directly.” Afridi’s voice revealed no emotion, but his hands were clenched on the arms of his wheelchair.

  “Without informing me?”

  Afridi nodded. “I didn’t trust your delivery systems. There was a security breach at the High Commission. I don’t know who it was or how it happened, but for several months I’d been suspecting something. Qasim was betrayed, and he paid for it with his life.”

  Manav looked down at his hands, studying his knuckles.

  “Do you think the Americans knew about him?” he asked, without looking up.

  “Probably not,” said Afridi. “But if I had to guess who arranged to have him killed, more than likely it was Guldaar.”

  “Our best agent,” said Manav looking up to meet Afridi’s gaze. “Such a pity. Such a waste.”

  “Qasim’s life won’t have been wasted,” said Afridi, “if we can catch Guldaar.”

  After Shinde left, Afridi turned his attention to the boxes of files. Cutting the seals with a penknife, he rooted through the first carton, most of which seemed irrelevant. It was only in the second box that he found what he was looking for: a thin dossier marked “Daphne Shah.” The papers smelled faintly of Gamexene, which protected the documents from worms and silverfish.

  Inside was a series of studio photographs of a beautiful woman. Afridi recognized her face from pictures in magazines many years ago, when Daphne was a model and actress. She had toffee blond hair with a natural wave. The unblemished contours of her face seemed to be lit up by an inner radiance rather than the harsh glare of studio lamps. She looked as if she might be European, perhaps Spanish or Italian. For a while, the film magazines had referred to her as a Greek goddess or nymph because of her name, ethereal beauty, and statuesque figure.

 

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