The Dalliance of Leopards

by Alter, Stephen;

  Each of the photographs was slightly different, though all of them were glamorously posed, the kind of publicity shots that film producers hold up for review when casting a suitable female face to go with the hero of their latest movie. Though Daphne made a successful debut as an actress, she had one fatal flaw. At five eleven she was five inches taller than most of the male stars in Bombay, who felt intimidated by her height.

  Flipping through the dossier, Afridi skimmed over clippings from gossip columns reporting rumored affairs with industrialists and erstwhile maharajahs. A few of these were confirmed by intelligence reports, including her relationship with a Russian diplomat who was deported because of a bribery case. Daphne was innocent, and the confidential report exonerated her, though it raised questions about her nationality. Toward the end of the file, there was a reference to her relationship with a man named Jasbir Bakshi. Afridi recalled the name. Jasbir Bakshi had gained a brief notoriety in the Bombay underworld during the eighties as a smuggler and conman who partied with film stars. Later, after an income tax raid on his flat in Worli, he disappeared abroad, one of those flamboyant criminals whose fortunes flared up and flamed out on the society pages. Another document in the file was a passport application with a photograph of Daphne, looking far less glamorous but still beautiful. She gave her name as Laila Shah, daughter of Mohammed Aslam Shah, with a permanent address in Kalbadevi, undoubtedly false. There was no indication whether the passport had been issued or not. Afridi glanced at the accompanying CD and decided he would save that question for later.

  Daphne’s file contained a copy of an Interpol Red Corner Notice for Jasbir Bakshi. No recent photographs were available, but as Afridi worked his way through the dossier, moving backward in history, he found pasted to a police report two pictures of a man in his early thirties with a fair complexion, a prominent nose, and long hair, looking like a drugged-out rock star. He had been arrested for smuggling gold from Dubai, but the police closed the case due to insufficient evidence. The original report recorded twenty-five kilos of gold in his possession, but later documents reduced the amount to twenty-five ounces. The man in the photograph was identified as Jasbir, and his address was a flat in Bandra. Afridi studied the picture, unable to recognize the face. He knew this photograph was of an imposter, part of an elaborate shell game of identities.

  The dossier also contained several photographs of Jehangir Daruwalla as a young man, though he was identified as Jamshed Baksh, alias Javed Irani. Afridi had to smile at the rakish pose and cigarette tucked into a surly smile. There were several telexes in the dossier between Jamshed Baksh and someone in London about a shipment that was delayed. None of it added up to anything more than a business transaction that may or may not have been illegal. The photograph that caught Afridi’s eye was a candid shot taken at a party in which Daruwalla and Daphne Shah were seated together in front of a plaster mural of mermaids. A mirror behind them caught the camera’s flash. Both were laughing at a joke. On the back of the photograph, someone had written their initials. “DS and JD. New Year 1982.”

  Reaching for his phone, Afridi searched through a list of contacts, then made a call.

  “Miss Tagore,” he said, when a woman’s voice answered. “How have you been? All well, I hope?”

  Afridi listened for a moment and then replied.

  “Actually, I’m in Delhi. I flew down from Mussoorie this morning.”

  He flipped through the file distractedly as the woman responded.

  “Business, of course,” Afridi said. “I was wondering if we could meet. I wanted to discuss something with you. Perhaps this evening? Humayun’s Tomb. 18:00 hours?”

  Fifteen

  By the time Luke reached Dulles airport, his ticket had already been rebooked. After returning the rental car, he took a shuttle to Departures and checked in. Though he was officially on leave, his editors were already clamoring for him to file reports on the earthquake. Going back to Pakistan was the only choice he had. Luke figured if he made it to Islamabad within the next twenty-four hours, he’d be able to reach the affected areas by the following day, provided he could hitch a ride on a helicopter. From what little he had learned, the epicenter of the quake was northwest of Chitral, in a valley that wasn’t heavily populated, though surrounding areas had been badly damaged. He had called a couple of contacts, who claimed that whole villages had been buried and most of the roads destroyed.

  Ruth was upset with him for leaving so abruptly, though he tried to make her understand. When he left the house, Nina was awake. Luke had kissed her on the forehead, promising he would come back in the summer.

  “Be careful,” Ruth said. “Don’t take any stupid risks.”

  “No worries,” he said.

  Poonam hugged him before he got in the car. “You didn’t even get a chance to change her diapers,” she said.

  “Next time, for sure,” he said, as he drove off. Though he sounded confident and waved at the three of them, he felt an ache of remorse, the familiar insecurity of leaving and never knowing when he’d be back. Sudden departures had always been a part of his life, constantly traveling to cover the next story, unable to settle down. He envied his sister the contentment and security of her home, a lover who was there each morning when she woke up, and now a child to raise together.

  After passing through security, Luke still had an hour until his flight. With his business class ticket, he was able to go to the executive lounge, where he got himself a cup of coffee, picked up copies of the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times, and found a quiet corner in which to browse the news. Ten minutes later, he saw Carlton Fletcher enter the lounge. Despite a momentary urge to hide, Luke raised his hand. Fletcher came across and sat down beside him.

  “Are you on this flight?” Luke asked.

  “No,” said Fletcher. “I just came by to wish you bon voyage.”

  “That’s kind of you. For a minute I thought you might not let me go back,” said Luke. “Keep me here for questioning.”

  Fletcher gave a tentative smile. “You’ll be a lot more help to us over there.”

  “You know,” said Luke, “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I told you already, I’m not interested in working for the CIA.”

  When Fletcher took his glasses off for a moment, his eyes looked tired and vulnerable.

  “I’m not with the CIA,” he said.

  Luke fell silent for a moment.

  “What about Tracy Holman?” he asked.

  Fletcher shook his head.

  “All right, so who do you work for?” Luke asked.

  “Let’s just say we’re part of the NSA,” said Fletcher, “and leave it at that.”

  “Okay, but you’re still wasting your time,” Luke replied. “I’m not going to work for the US government.”

  “Of course,” said Fletcher. “I understand.”

  For several seconds he remained silent as one of the other passengers in the lounge walked by on his way to the men’s room.

  “We don’t want you to work for us,” said Fletcher.

  “I thought that was the whole point?” said Luke. “All that bullshit about repatriation of human remains, flying me here. The only thing you didn’t plan on was the earthquake. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “The truth is, you haven’t disappointed us,” said Fletcher. “You’ve done exactly as we asked. Mission accomplished.”

  Luke reached for his coffee and took a sip.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, the body you brought back was extremely important to us, along with the contents of the suitcase. Fortunately, everything came through intact and nothing got into the wrong hands.” Fletcher paused and cracked his knuckles. “There are times we can’t even trust our own people, and it becomes necessary to operate through alternate channels.”

  “What was in the suitcase?” Luke said.

  “Evidence,” said Fletcher, with an enigmatic smile.

  “And if they’d opened it at Customs?”
Luke said. “What would have happened?”

  “You would have gone to jail for the next ten years,” Fletcher replied. “Of course, if they’d opened the coffin, it could have been a whole lot worse.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Luke said with a laugh.

  “You don’t have to,” said Fletcher. “It’s a moot point. You successfully made the delivery, and we’re genuinely grateful to you.”

  Luke found his irritation growing. “Then why all the questions about the Sikander-e-Azam Trust, all that crap about ethics and morality?”

  “We just wanted to make sure you’re the kind of person you say you are,” said Fletcher.

  “What is this?” Luke was angry now. “Why are you jerking me around?”

  “Calm down,” said Fletcher.

  “I’m a US citizen,” said Luke, “and an accredited journalist. You can’t fuck around with me like this.”

  “Nobody’s fucking with you,” said Fletcher. “Take it easy. I’m just telling you the truth, so you’ll understand how important this is.”

  “You haven’t told me anything, goddamn it,” said Luke. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re after.”

  “How was your visit with your sister?” Fletcher inquired.

  “None of your business,” said Luke.

  “And the baby’s well? She’s almost a month old, isn’t she?”

  Luke felt his mouth going dry. Fletcher’s voice had changed almost imperceptibly, though the warning in his words was loud and clear.

  “What do you know about her?” Luke said.

  “Everything,” said Fletcher. “We know that you’re the father. We know that Ruth and her partner have a successful business and a pretty good life in the country—clean air, no traffic, no commute, fields, and forest all around.”

  “So what?” said Luke.

  “We also know that they’ve been cheating on their taxes, claiming deductions with phony receipts. The IRS could make things very difficult for them.”

  “You’re threatening me,” said Luke.

  “Let me finish,” said Fletcher. “Your sister’s partner … her name is Poonam Tewari. She came to the US from India on a student visa, which she overstayed. An immigration lawyer, Kent Brookes, did some fancy footwork to keep her here, but the fact is, she doesn’t have a green card or a valid visa. She’s an illegal alien, and we could deport her within twenty-four hours because she’s broken half a dozen laws. Even her smart-ass lawyer wouldn’t be able to save her.”

  Luke kept quiet, staring at the folded papers on his lap.

  “I’m only trying to be persuasive,” said Fletcher.

  “What is it you want?” Luke demanded.

  “We need you to do your job as a journalist, that’s all,” said Fletcher. “But in the course of your investigations, if you turn up the kind of information we’re looking for regarding the Sikander-e-Azam Trust and Peregrine, I’d be grateful if you shared it with us.”

  “Jesus!” Luke said.

  Fletcher leaned in a little closer.

  “The dead man you brought back was one of our assets, an independent contractor taken hostage in Azad Kashmir, three weeks ago. He was severely tortured before they killed him. The body shows signs of everything from electric shocks to broken fingers and a whole lot of things you can’t imagine a human being could endure. They wanted him to talk, but, unfortunately for him, he didn’t have the information they wanted. We recovered what was left of the body from a ditch outside Muzzafarabad.”

  “Who did it?” said Luke.

  “That’s the disturbing question.” Fletcher looked toward the window, where a British Airways 747 was pulling into its parking bay. “Because it might have been some people we thought we could trust.”

  “And what makes you think I can help?” Luke asked, feeling an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades.

  “Because you have contacts with SEA. We suspect they had something to do with this.” Fletcher sat back in his seat. “And just in case you’re thinking about alerting them, please keep in mind that the suitcase you were carrying contained five kilos of heroin. The baggage tag with your name on it is still attached.”

  Sixteen

  Humayun’s Tomb had been recently renovated and restored by the Aga Khan Foundation and the Archeaological Survey of India, who did extensive repairs and cleaning and replanted lawns and gardens. Anna hadn’t been here for at least ten years. She remembered her last visit, with a group of college friends. They all got stoned near the Barber’s Tomb, one of the peripheral mausoleums, with intricate sandstone screens. Anna recalled taking hits from a joint and watching the carved patterns turn into a fluid tapestry of light and shadow until she couldn’t tell the solid geometric shapes from the spaces in between.

  Arriving early, she sat under one of the arches inside the main gate and waited for Colonel Afridi to show up. His call had surprised her in the middle of an audio surveillance project, tapping phones at the Bangladesh High Commission. Manav had warned her that someone would be in touch, but he hadn’t told her who it might be. The last time she and Afridi had spoken was almost nine months ago, though she recognized his voice immediately.

  Now she saw him appear at the far corner of the gardens, entering through the southern archway instead of the main gate, to avoid the steps. He hadn’t spotted her yet, as she approached along the water channels, passing under the matted branches of a ficus tree. Afridi paused by a fountain, and after finally catching sight of Anna, he raised one hand in greeting. He was alone, but she knew that his escorts must be close by. When Anna reached him, she began to put out her hand, then leaned forward and lightly kissed his cheek.

  Afridi was not easily flustered, but he looked startled for a moment, embarrassed by her impulsive gesture of affection. Ever since Anna joined the intelligence service, she had been in awe of him. When they worked together on the last operation, she had found him a generous mentor as well as a strict and demanding case officer.

  “How have you been, sir?” she asked, taking a step back. Though the sun was descending beyond the western walls of the garden, it was warm, and she could see a trickle of perspiration on the side of Afridi’s face as he turned his wheelchair.

  “Very well, thank you,” he said, with quiet formality.

  “I was surprised when you said you were in Delhi,” Anna continued.

  Afridi smiled.

  “As you know, I avoid this city as much as I can, but whenever I’m here, I like to visit the few places that remind me what Delhi used to be like. These gardens have been brought back to life,” he said. “Do you come here often?”

  Anna shook her head, deciding there wasn’t any point in telling Afridi about her last visit.

  “I’ve always found this tomb more impressive than any other Mughal monument,” said Afridi. “A perfect blend of architectural aesthetics and natural beauty.”

  She nodded, knowing that he would eventually get around to telling her why they were here, but only after he’d finished musing on the mausoleum.

  “It is spectacular,” she said, glancing up at the enormous marble dome and the red sandstone façade. Afridi lifted a hand and seemed to trace the outline with his finger.

  “Humayun’s tomb was built by a woman in memory of her husband, whereas Shah Jehan was commemorating the death of one of his queens. You can see the difference, can’t you?” Afridi said. “This is a truer, more powerful statement, whereas the Taj Mahal is romantic hyperbole, a lot of semi-precious stones and marble along with superfluous minarets that take away from the grandeur of the dome. The emotions expressed are much deeper and more passionate. Humayun’s widow walked through these gardens every day, mourning her husband until she finally followed him into death. I much prefer this mausoleum to the Taj.”

  “There are people who would disagree with you, sir,” Anna said with a laugh.

  “To hell with them,” Afridi replied, setting off in a counterclockwise direction. For a while, he conti
nued to spin architectural theories, drawing her attention to the five pointed stars that appeared at each corner of the tomb.

  Anna wanted to interrupt, but she knew better than to try and change the topic. After a while, they stopped under a tamarind tree. She could hear the prolonged whistle of a train leaving Nizamuddin Station nearby. The sun was dropping below the crenelated walls, gilding the white dome with a burnished aura.

  “It’s like the last light on the mountains,” Anna said, remembering the view of the high Himalayas from Afridi’s cottage in Mussoorie.

  “Alpenglow,” he said. “The same effect, whether it’s marble or snow.”

  As the blush of color began to fade, Afridi turned toward Anna.

  “Miss Tagore, I need your help,” he said. “We have an urgent situation that requires somebody I can trust.”

  “You’re inviting me back to Mussoorie?” Anna asked.

  Afridi smiled. “No. Not just yet,” he said. “I want you to go somewhere else. Somewhere you’d never imagine.”

  Anna looked at him with a puzzled expression as he fell silent.

  “Where?” she finally demanded.

  “Am’rika,” said Afridi, teasing her with the pronunciation.

  She broke into a laugh, knowing how much he disliked the United States.

  “You’re joking,” she said.

  “No,” he replied, setting off along the path again, both hands working the wheels on his chair.

  “Sir, why would you send me there?” she asked, catching up with him.

  “To do some research,” said Afridi. “You’ll be studying the archived papers of a Sanskrit scholar and philologist named Dennis Shelton. He was an accomplished translator who produced the first English rendition of Bilhana’s lesser-known verses.”

  Afridi was moving faster now, as if to escape her questions.

  “Bilhana?”

  “The twelfth-century bard of Kashmir,” he replied.