“Weapons?”
“Small arms.”
“And where was it going?” Afridi demanded.
There was a long pause.
“Muzaffarabad,” said Daruwalla. He knew better than to lie to Afridi.
“P.O.K.,” said Afridi. “Pak Occupied Kashmir.”
Jehangir gave a tentative smile as the coffee arrived. The bearer set the tray down on the table between them, and Afridi gestured for him to leave. Neither of them spoke as Afridi poured Daruwalla’s coffee.
“You realize, of course, I could have you thrown in jail,” Afridi said. “For aiding our enemies and supporting the insurgency in Kashmir. It would be a clear case of abetting terrorism.”
“It’s not what you think,” Jehangir protested, the coffee cup unsteady as he raised it to his lips.
“Whatever I may think will be irrelevant once they lock you up,” said Afridi. “The dead Bosnian only complicates things. Your passport has been impounded, hasn’t it?”
Jehangir nodded.
Despite himself, Afridi felt genuinely sorry for Daruwalla. He was a likeable man, articulate, urbane. But Afridi could read the desperation in his eyes, despite his attempts to make casual conversation. For the past two days he had endured interrogation by the Intelligence Bureau in Mumbai.
“Shipping arms to terrorists is a serious crime,” Afridi said.
“Please, Colonel …”
Afridi scowled at the flavor of the coffee, too much chicory, though he found Daruwalla’s pleading even more distasteful. The last time they’d met was in Mussoorie. Afridi had invited Daruwalla to spend a weekend with him, hoping to extract information about an arms deal between an Italian company that was negotiating with Pakistan to supply lightweight artillery for mountain warfare. Jehangir wasn’t particularly forthcoming but they discovered that they shared a number of common interests, including the novels of Graham Greene and well-blended scotch. Though he hadn’t been able to get the information he wanted, Afridi had enjoyed Daruwalla’s company.
“You gave my telephone number to a woman named Daphne Shaw,” he said.
Jehangir’s expression changed abruptly, a furtive look in his eyes.
“Yes.”
“She called me a couple days ago,” said Afridi. “Did you know about that?”
Daruwalla shook his head.
“Why did you give her my number?”
“I thought it might be useful,” Jehangir said with a pensive smile. “For her … for you, perhaps.”
“In what way?” Afridi demanded.
“I’m not sure. Maybe she can assist you—”
“In Eggleston, Ohio? Why would I need anything from her?”
Jehangir slowly put his cup and saucer on the table, his hand still shaking.
“Perhaps she knows someone.”
“Guldaar?”
“Possibly … though she probably knows him by another name, one of his many aliases.”
“But you know him as Guldaar.”
“I don’t really know him,” Jehangir began. We’ve never met and—”
“How could that be possible?” Afridi interrupted him. “You’ve represented Guldaar on more than one occasion.”
“Yes, I have, but he likes to keep himself aloof,” Daruwalla explained. “We speak on the telephone whenever it’s necessary. But he’s always insisted that we should never meet face-to-face. I suppose it’s safer that way, for both of us.”
Afridi studied him for a moment, as if he weren’t convinced.
“But Daphne Shaw has met him, hasn’t she?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“And how do you know her?”
“From long ago, when she lived in Bombay and worked as an actress. We’ve been friends since then,” Jehangir replied.
“Were you lovers?” Afridi asked.
“No,” said Jehangir with a choked laugh. “Of course not.”
“I still don’t understand why you gave her my telephone number,” Afridi said. “Or why you told her that I could help in an emergency.”
“Insurance,” said Daruwalla. “What’s known these days as risk management.”
This time Afridi laughed, though his face showed little amusement.
“What do you mean, exactly?”
“You see, it’s the only way I can protect myself from Guldaar, because I really don’t know who he is or what he looks like. But Daphne does.”
Afridi could see the furtive tension in Daruwalla’s eyes, as if he had played the only card he had. Reaching into his pocket, he took out Daruwalla’s passport.
“Jehangir, I’ll give you a choice,” he said, holding out the passport. “We can keep you here in protective custody. Nobody will find you. It’s safe and comfortable, though you’ll have no access to any form of communication. Cold storage. Or, you can tell me everything you know about Guldaar, and I’ll give you back your passport. You can walk out of here, take your chances, and catch the next flight home to London.”
He could see Daruwalla calculating the odds.
“What about the dead Bosnian and the shipment?” he asked.
“Nobody will stop you from leaving the country,” Afridi assured him.
“And if I stay?”
“I can’t guarantee how long we’ll have to keep you here.” Afridi still held the passport in his hand. “Either way, you’ll tell me what I need to know.”
“Where do you want me to begin?” Jehangir asked.
“I want to know everything about Guldaar,” said Afridi. “What sort of business you conducted, your mutual contacts…. But before we go there, I’m curious about his connections with the Americans.”
Daruwalla moistened his lips with his tongue and glanced aside. He understood that Afridi knew enough to recognize if he was lying.
“As I said before, I’ve never met him. All of my contacts were through third parties. Several times we spoke on the phone. At least, I think I spoke to him. I don’t know how he got started with the Americans, but he handled major arms shipments to the mujaheddin back in the eighties, when they were fighting the Soviets. Later, he brokered significant deals with the Pakistan army, taking kickbacks from both sides.”
“What kind of deals?” Afridi asked.
“The upgrading of Abrams tanks, a whole new guidance and navigation system,” said Daruwalla. “After that it was a contract for supplying Raytheon antimissile batteries. A hundred and twenty million dollars, of which he got twenty percent. There were other deals, too, but these are the only ones I know for sure. The CIA supports him and turns a blind eye to his other activities because of his connections in the tribal areas. Though I’m told he provided critical information on Al Qaeda hideouts, I didn’t have much to do with that side of things. Most of my contact with him was related to the arms trade, though I know he made a good deal of money off the Americans by taking a percentage on the political payoffs to various Afghan factions. As you know, in the Hindu Kush, the only thing that talks is money.”
“Is he involved in the drug trade?”
“Not directly, but he facilitates shipments between Afghanistan and India, as well as Tajikistan, Iran, and Europe. More than the drugs, it’s part of a complicated money laundering operation, using kickbacks from NATO contracts, mostly fuel and cement, to finance the purchase of heroin and cover the cost of smuggling it abroad. Then he takes the profits and channels them into political donations in cash, for which he and his partners receive everything from a stake in major development projects to shares in public sector companies that are being privatized. Guldaar doesn’t touch any of it himself, but he has links to every government in South Asia and the Middle East. If he needs a billion dollars in Kathmandu tomorrow, he can source it from banks in Dubai or Oman without anyone being able to trace the transactions, because it’s broken down into payments of less than $10,000 to fictitious accounts, under the guise of foreign workers sending remittances back home. Some of it is channeled through his charities, particu
larly the Sikander-e-Azam Trust. The whole thing is like a huge pyramid scheme with only one investor. It’s all based on trust … and fear.”
Daruwalla paused and looked around, as if he expected a bullet to come at him through the window.
“Go on,” said Afridi. “Keep talking.”
For the next two hours, Daruwalla explained whatever he knew of Guldaar’s contacts and operations. At points, when he seemed to be avoiding details, Afridi insisted on names. There were questions that he couldn’t answer, and some of his information was questionable at best, but within a couple of hours, he’d revealed almost everything he knew.
When they finally finished, it was ten minutes past noon. Afridi held out the passport.
“Why would you let me go?” Daruwalla asked.
“Risk management,” said Afridi.
With the slow, deliberate gesture of a gambler wagering everything he possessed, Daruwalla reached out and took the passport before rising to his feet.
“Before you leave,” said Afridi, as if it were an afterthought, “I have one more question.”
Jehangir nodded, his fingers stroking the British lions on the passport cover.
“You haven’t told me about Peregrine.”
Afridi could see the alarm in Daruwala’s eyes, even as he tried to control the muscles in his face.
“What about Peregrine?” he said.
“Guldaar is their agent, isn’t he? Or is he a silent partner?”
“I’m not totally sure.”
Afridi shook his head. “Come on, Jehangir. I don’t believe you.”
“He’s heavily invested in the company, if that’s what you mean,” said Daruwalla. “I don’t know how much, but it’s a significant share.”
“The Pakistanis are interested in drones that Peregrine manufactures, aren’t they?”
“Yes, of course.” Daruwalla put his passport in his pocket, as if afraid it would be taken away from him again.
“So are we,” said Afridi, “Both countries are in the bidding.”
Jehangir raised both palms in a helpless gesture of confirmation.
Afridi nodded. “Major Karamjit Singh can call you a taxi.”
“Colonel—” Jehangir began to speak, then stopped himself before they shook hands. For several moments their eyes were fixed on each other. Then Daruwalla left the room without saying another word. Afridi admired his courage and composure, though he knew that Jehangir might as well have put a pistol to his own head. Inevitably, Guldaar would learn of their conversation through his informants in the ministry and put two and two together. He would know that Daruwalla not only had confessed to him, but was his link to Daphne.
Nineteen
The following morning, when Luke and Ibrahim woke up, the porters were gone. Though they had been paid only half their money, the men had left before daybreak. Mushtaq, who got up earlier, claimed he had tried to reason with them, but they wouldn’t listen, saying they had homes to rebuild and families to care for after the earthquake. The boxes of medical supplies they left behind—cartons of syringes, vials, splints, tablets, bandages, and bottles of antiseptic—were much too heavy for the three of them to carry. Here it would go to waste.
After brewing some tea, once the sun had reached their tent, they went back up to the ruined village and found the survivors were gone as well, except for the man with the fractured skull, who was dead. His fingers no longer opened and closed but were frozen into a fist. There was no sign of the others. Ibrahim and Mushtaq called out, but no one replied and Luke felt a sudden, overwhelming loneliness. The magpies had returned, perched on the rocks above the communal grave. A stench of death still hovered over the site. The sky was a deep blue, and the clouds had vanished. Above them, the arid slopes were strewn with boulders, and Luke could see cliffs higher up. When he asked Ibrahim what he thought had happened, the doctor said nothing and scanned the ridges anxiously.
“Maybe they left with the porters,” Luke suggested.
“No,” said Mushtaq. “I saw those men crossing the ridge below. There were only three of them.”
“Could the others have left on their own?”
“Where would they go?”
Just then, Luke saw a movement on the slope above, higher up the ridge. He thought it might be wild sheep, but after a minute he could make out two human figures. The sun was in his eyes, and the glare made it difficult to see.
“There’s someone,” he said, pointing. The men were about two hundred yards away, descending a goat path between the rocks.
When he glanced at Ibrahim, Luke could see fear in his eyes. The doctor reached out, as if to pull Luke aside. In that instant, there was a shot. The bullet caught Ibrahim in the chest, and his body twisted backward as he fell to the ground. For a few seconds, Luke didn’t understand what was going on. Then he saw Mushtaq running toward one of the shattered walls, trying to take shelter. Two more gunshots rang out and Mushtaq fell, turning over once then lying still. Luke knew that he was next, but his feet wouldn’t move. The figures were still far away. He couldn’t tell who they were. The bullets had come from higher up, a sniper hidden among the rocks. Luke stood waiting for the shot that would kill him as he watched the two men approach. They were dressed in salwar kameez and sheepskin coats, with turbans on their heads. One of the men carried an AK-47, which he pointed in Luke’s direction. The other held a pistol. They said nothing as they approached, and it seemed to take forever before they reached him. Luke didn’t try to run. There was nowhere for him to go, and the shock of seeing Ibrahim and Mushtaq die had left him unable to move or speak.
With the butt of his pistol, one man clubbed Luke across the face. He fell sideways and tried to crawl away but felt another blow at the back of his head. The next thing he saw were scuffed boots in front of his face and blood in the dust. They tied his hands behind his back and hit him once again, knocking him unconscious. When he came to, his eyes had been covered with a blindfold, and someone held him by the arm, hauling him to his feet. Luke’s head throbbed with pain, and he could taste blood in his mouth. They dragged him forward until he began to walk on his own. He heard voices but couldn’t understand their words. The path they took must have been the same one the attackers came down, heading up the valley. They walked for several hours. Luke’s mouth and throat were dry. He asked for water. Immediately, he felt a stab of pain in his side as the muzzle of a gun prodded him below the ribs.
At one point, he heard a helicopter pulsing overhead. His captors threw him to the ground, and Luke could sense that they were hiding, probably behind a boulder. When Luke could no longer hear the chopper, he was hauled to his feet and they started walking again. Twice he tripped and fell, landing heavily on one shoulder because his arms were tied. When they finally stopped, he was aware of being taken inside some kind of shelter. It could have been a house or a cave. The sun was no longer on his back. Someone yanked the blindfold from his face. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the contours of a dark, windowless space. Before he knew it, a flash went off. His captors took two photographs of him. Luke wondered if they were using his camera. Blinded by the harsh light, he couldn’t see anything except shadows moving in front of him. They tied the blindfold across his eyes again and pressed a steel cup to his lips. He drank the water eagerly, spilling it in a rush to swallow. The cold liquid stung the cuts on his mouth.
After this, they pushed him forward until he fell through a hole in the ground, scraping his arm as he dropped eight or ten feet, landing heavily. His right leg hurt badly, but he could still move it. Luke guessed they had thrown him into a well or some kind of underground chamber. He could feel cold walls on either side. Overhead, someone was dragging a heavy stone to seal the exit. His hands had been freed. Luke waited, until he felt sure he was alone. Reaching up to uncover his eyes, he stared into the darkness. A slit of light entered through a narrow gap above. The walls were made of rough concrete. One section of the ceiling had collapsed, probably during the earthqu
ake.
Trapped inside this vault, he could hear no other sounds but the rasping of his own breath. He locked his fingers together, trying to calm his nerves. Though it looked as if he were praying, no words could express the fear and desperation he felt. In his mind, Luke pictured his sister Ruth holding the baby, smiling at him with a curious look of concern. He recalled Fletcher’s threat and wished he’d stayed with them, worried about what might happen to them now. The cell in which he crouched was cold and empty as a tomb. Drawing his knees up against his chest, Luke remembered Ibrahim’s story—a newborn child sewn up inside the skin of a slaughtered lamb.
Twenty
An auto-rickshaw dropped Anna near one of the side gates of the US embassy in Delhi. After haggling with the driver, she joined a queue in front of the reception window. Ten years ago, she’d gone through the same process to get a student visa for graduate school. That was soon after 9/11, and security was at the highest level. This time it wasn’t any different. A long line of anxious applicants waited to enter the holding area where the visa process began.
Originally, the diplomatic enclave in Chanakyapuri had been designed with broad, tree-lined boulevards and spacious embassy compounds encircled by gardens. With the threat of terrorist attacks, each of these had become a fortified citadel, surrounded by razor wire, security cameras, concrete barriers, and blast-proof walls. Two blocks from Roosevelt House, the US ambassador’s palatial residence, stood the Russian embassy with its stolid socialist architecture, formerly a bastion of the Soviet Union. Across Shanti Path, the Avenue of Peace, lay Pakistan’s High Commission, its blue dome the color of lapis lazuli.
When Anna’s turn came at the bulletproof window, she showed her passport and the letter inviting her for an interview. Her name had been changed to Sheetal Khanna. She knew that Manav Shinde was to blame for that. It was the name of a joint secretary in the Home Ministry, a woman they both despised. Through connections at Fulbright House, Manav had been able to get Anna’s interview expedited. The clear plastic folder she carried contained letters of invitation from Bromfield College along with false documents, including a State Bank of India passbook showing sufficient funds and certificates of fixed deposit, the title deed to a flat in Kalkaji, and affidavits to the effect that she had an elderly mother who depended on her, all of which was supposed to convince the Americans that she wouldn’t overstay her visa. A packet of forged testimonials from the Department of Sanskrit at Delhi University identified Sheetal Khanna as a linguist pursuing her PhD. Anna had studied the documents this morning to make sure she could answer any questions that arose.
The Dalliance of Leopards Page 10