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The Dalliance of Leopards

Page 12

by Alter, Stephen;


  “Colonel, I’d like a word alone with you, if possible.”

  Afridi glanced back over his shoulder, meeting the same untroubled gaze.

  “Why?”

  “I have a personal request.” He glanced at his companions, hinting that he preferred they didn’t hear what he had to say.

  Afridi nodded toward Phunsok. The military policemen took the two silent men by their arms and led them outside.

  “May I?” said the man, helping himself to another cigarette and lighting up.

  Giving the prisoner a moment to fill his lungs, Afridi spoke in a level voice. “Mr. Amanatidis, I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but I can assure you that once we’re through with you, there will be nothing left for you to hide.”

  “All of this is an unfortunate mistake,” the man replied. “And, of course, avoidable.”

  “Tell me what you were doing in Dhahnu with a sat phone and more dollars than anyone can spend in a year up there.”

  “I was looking for a bride,” the man said with a confident smile. “The purest of genes.”

  Afridi studied him with a skeptical look and said nothing, wondering how serious his injuries really were and whether the bandage was just a disguise.

  “Come now, Colonel,” the man said. “Both of us are Pakhtun. We value our history. You’re an Afridi. I’m also from the Hindu Kush. We understand each other.”

  “So, you admit you’re not Greek?” Afridi said. “You’re Pakistani.”

  The bandaged man laughed. “Does it matter? I have no nationality other than my tribe. Like you, I am a man who lives outside the borders others create.”

  “In case you have any doubts, I am an officer of the Indian Army. A citizen of this country,” said Afridi.

  “I admire your patriotism,” said the man, “but tell me, Colonel. What has your country done for you, except promise you a paltry pension at the end of your career—certainly not enough to support a comfortable lifestyle?”

  The cigarette fumes encircled the bandaged prisoner like snares of smoke. Reaching between the unbuttoned collars of his shirt, he withdrew a gold pendant, shaped like a horse, that hung from his neck on a heavy chain. Without removing the pendant, he stroked it between his fingers. Afridi could see that the gold was embedded with diamonds.

  “I can assure you Colonel, I will make it worth your while if you arrange to have us released. This pendant is worth two hundred thousand Euros … more than you’ve earned in a lifetime. Take it, and when I’ve left your country, another hundred thousand will be deposited in any bank account you choose.”

  Afridi did not move, but the man edged forward in his seat until he was less than a foot away, his fingers fondling the links on the chain while the cigarette smoldered between his lips. The gauze and sticking plaster made him look as sinister as he sounded.

  The blow that Afridi delivered with the knuckles of his right hand caught the man on the side of his face not covered by the bandage, sending his cigarette spinning to the floor, drawing blood from his nose, and splitting his lip. For several moments, the prisoner leaned aside in shock and pain, holding a hand to his face. When he turned to look at Afridi, his smile turned into a venomous sneer.

  “You’re a pathetic, crippled man,” he said, as he spat blood on the floor. “Believe me, Colonel. Someday, I’ll put you out of your misery.”

  Afridi rang the buzzer to signal that he was done. Captain Phunsok entered immediately.

  “Keep him separate from the other two. No more questions—I’ll speak with Delhi,” said Afridi. “And take away the gold chain and pendant around his neck. Make sure it’s weighed and recorded as evidence.”

  Afridi didn’t look back as he left the room. His right hand hurt from the blow, but he was grateful for the pain. A few minutes later, he called Army Intelligence headquarters and explained the situation, telling the director that the prisoner had tried to bribe him and urging his superior to make arrangements to have him securely guarded.

  More than twenty years later, Afridi held up the same gold chain. Bucephalus’s eye glittered in the sunlight coming through his office window. One of the colonel’s greatest regrets was that he hadn’t personally ensured the prisoners were properly locked up, instead entrusting them to the military police. That same evening, Afridi was informed that the Greeks had escaped without a trace. He could never be sure of the man’s identity. Nobody had thought to take photographs of the prisoners when they were arrested. Yet the more he learned about Guldaar, the more Afridi was convinced that this had been the same man.

  Twenty-Two

  Hunched against the wall, arms wrapped about his knees, Luke couldn’t sleep. The glimmer of light overhead had disappeared. He felt invisible in the darkness, unable to see his own fingers, even when he held them an inch away from his eyes. He still had his watch but couldn’t read what time it was. They had taken his camera, wallet, and cellphone. One of the guards had thrown a torn blanket into his cell, which he’d wrapped around himself. His down parka and boots kept him from freezing, though his face and hands were cold.

  Unable to think with any clarity, he kept remembering how Ibrahim had died, folding up beside him without a sound. He could still see Mushtaq running and then being shot, lying spread-eagled in the dirt. Luke had wept for them as he was walking, the blindfold absorbing his tears, but now his grief had receded deep inside like a bullet lodged against his heart. More than anything he wanted a cigarette, though he knew it was impossible and absurd.

  The room where he was imprisoned had a dry, earthy odor. A short while ago, he’d felt an aftershock. The walls trembled and flakes of concrete fell from the ceiling. He needed to urinate and finally forced himself to stand, stumbling into the far corner of the cell. In the darkness, he had only a vague sense of the space, no more than eight or ten feet across. He emptied his bladder in a painful, pleasurable stream. Inhaling the sour stench of urine was strangely comforting, proving that he was alive.

  Just as he settled down again, Luke heard the grating sound of the rock being removed from the opening overhead. Two men with lights peered in at him and shouted, though he didn’t understand their words. Extending their arms for him to grab, they dragged him out of the chamber, then roughly pushed him ahead as they walked along a dirt track toward the silhouette of a building, some kind of village home. This time, they didn’t cover his eyes. He ducked his head to enter a low doorway. A lantern sat on a table. Six or seven men were gathered in a loose circle, all of them armed. The flickering light cast tall shadows against the walls. He was pushed forward onto the floor. Kneeling, with his face lowered, he heard a voice speaking to him in Urdu, with a heavy accent.

  “Are you a doctor?” the man asked.

  Luke raised his head and saw a weathered face. The man had a pained yet gentle expression and tangled beard. His right arm was in a sling. Luke could see that his fingers had been crushed.

  “No,” Luke said, softly. “You killed our doctor.”

  He felt a blow against the back of his skull, and for a minute or two he was knocked senseless, until someone dragged him up onto his knees again. The boxes of medicines lay on the floor in front of him.

  “Do you know what these are?” the man asked.

  Luke nodded.

  “What is this?” One of the men picked up a strip of pills but Luke couldn’t read the label in the shadows, his eyes still blurred by the blow to his head.

  The man shone a light on the tablets.

  “Cipro,” Luke said. “For infections. There are other antibiotics, too.”

  Another strip of tablets was thrust in front of him.

  “Paracetamol. Painkillers.”

  One by one they took the packets and bottles from the boxes, forcing him to identify each of the medicines. Most of these he knew, for he had helped Ibrahim repack them before they started up the valley. One box contained packets of IV fluid; another, plastic splints of different sizes. Though the room they sat in hadn�
��t been damaged and only one or two of the men appeared to have been hurt, he realized that his captors had suffered in the earthquake like everyone else. Some of them had probably been killed.

  After he identified vials of codeine, the man with the injured hand gestured to one of his lieutenants, who removed a syringe from a box and handed it to Luke. He knew what to do, having helped Ibrahim in the past. Unsheathing the needle and piercing the seal on the vial, Luke filled the syringe. It was difficult because his hands were shaking. When the dose of codeine was ready, he glanced up at his captor.

  “Inject yourself first,” the man said.

  He watched carefully as Luke opened his parka and slipped one arm out of its sleeve.

  “Go on,” he said. “Are you lying?”

  “No. This will ease your pain.” Luke’s eyes shifted to the swollen hand in the sling, fingers blackened and caked in blood. The wrist was turned at an awkward angle, obviously broken.

  “Go on. First you inject the medicine. Then, I will see …”

  Without rolling up his sleeve, Luke jabbed the needle into his arm through the flannel fabric, six inches below his shoulder. It was easier than he’d thought, and there was a dull ache as he pressed the plunger. For several minutes they watched him.

  “You are American?” the man asked.

  There was no point in denying it. They would have found his passport if they searched the tents. “Yes,” he said. The codeine was already working its magic. The pain in his head was gone, and he felt lighter, almost at ease.

  “You work for the CIA?” the injured man asked.

  “No,” he said. “I’m a journalist. The other men with me were a doctor and his assistant.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” said the man.

  “I’m not lying,” Luke said.

  “How did you learn Urdu?”

  “I was born in Pakistan, in Murree. Most of my life I’ve lived here.”

  The injured man gestured to one of the fighters, who handed him a second vial of codeine and another syringe. Luke prepared the injection as his captor continued to speak.

  “There are men I know in the CIA. Brad Foster. Davis. Tom Ruggles. Do you know them?”

  “No,” said Luke, piercing the sealed vial with the needle.

  “They came here when we were fighting the Russians, but I knew that someday we would have to fight them, as well. Why do you Americans always interfere?”

  “I’m only here to report on the earthquake.”

  “What good will that do?” The man laughed as one of his fighters rolled up the sleeve on his injured arm. Luke’s hand was shaking as he raised the syringe. Quickly, he gave the injection, and when he withdrew the needle a tiny bead of blood appeared.

  The codeine had brought on a weird kind of calm that took Luke outside himself, as if his nerves had separated from his flesh. The chemical solace eased more than just his injuries. He began to laugh at the absurdity of those names: Brad Foster. Davis. Tom Ruggles. Who were these men and what did they hope to achieve? A short while later, they hauled Luke to his feet. He felt like a drunk being carried home from a bar. When they pushed him through the hole in the roof of his cell, he felt no pain as he fell to the floor. The hard surfaces seemed softer now, and minutes after they drew the stone across the opening, Luke swam effortlessly into sleep.

  Twenty-Three

  “India’s mid-range nuclear missiles, capable of striking targets at a distance of 1,200 kilometers, are named Agni, after the Vedic god of fire, who has been worshipped in sacred rituals of sacrifice for more than three millennia.”

  Anna watched the slides on the screen advance while the professor spoke, moving from an image of the Agni missile to another weapon of mass destruction.

  “On the other side of the acrimonious border and so-called ‘Line of Actual Control,’ Pakistan, too, has developed missiles equipped with nuclear warheads. These are named Ghazni, after the first Muslim invader to cross the mountains of Afghanistan and conquer areas of northern India, penetrating as far as the Somnath Temple in Gujarat. Here in South Asia, mythology and history, as well as faith and national destiny, converge in a conflict that could reduce the subcontinent to an anarchic wasteland.”

  The students sat in bored silence as the PowerPoint lecture continued. Professor Satish Verma clicked forward to a political map of South Asia.

  “The deployment and location of these missiles is one of the best-kept national secrets in both countries, which have maintained a nuclear standoff for more than a decade. Today, the question before us is whether the deadly force of these armaments is real or symbolic, freighted as they are with metaphors that have nothing to do with the volatility of enriched uranium but carry a coded message of religious antagonism, suspicion, and hatred. I ask you, are these Agni and Ghazni missiles simply quaint names, arising out of the imaginations of military scientists and engineers, or are they contemporary avatars of an ancient yet enduring conflict?”

  The concluding slide was a newspaper cartoon of the Taj Mahal, its minarets replaced by missiles. Anna sat near the back, having slipped into the lecture hall a few minutes late, though she could tell Professor Verma was aware of her presence. As the students began stuffing notebooks into backpacks, he reminded them that their midterm papers were due next week. Anna watched from a distance, irritated by the short, animated figure in his sweater vest and tweed jacket over jeans. He looked every bit the postmodern academic. Though Verma retained a Kanpur accent, he had acquired hints of a Midwestern drawl. He was intelligent and articulate. Anna wondered whether he was dissatisfied teaching political science to undergraduates at Bromfield College, and if he yearned for the Ivy League.

  They had met the day before. After introducing himself, Verma invited her to his lecture, suggesting that he had important insights to impart. Anna knew that he was hitting on her, though she also knew he was married and had an infant child. Verma had helped facilitate her research fellowship at the college. He was head of the Political Science department and ensured approval from the dean, all of which Afridi had orchestrated through the consulate in Chicago. Despite his theories about nuclear standoffs, Verma had no idea that he was being played like a pawn in the larger game of geopolitics.

  Coming up the aisle of the lecture hall, he greeted her with a cheerful twitch of his mustache. Verma was three inches shorter than Anna, and his eyes were level with her chin but drifted lower to her chest.

  “So, what do you think, Sheetal?” he demanded. “Did I pose the question properly?”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  “I have no idea, professor,” she replied. “Politics and military standoffs aren’t my thing. You know I’m only interested in poetry.”

  “But that’s exactly the point I was trying to make: the poetics of power and conflict!” Verma’s voice became more excited the longer he stared at her breasts. “As a scholar of comparative literature, I was hoping you might interpret Indo-Pak relations through Spivakian tropes that we must unlearn. After all, these missiles are nothing but subaltern texts….”

  “With explosive devices attached,” Anna replied.

  Verma sniggered. “How about a coffee? We can discuss this further. I’d like to know your views…. There are so few people here with whom I can have an informed conversation.”

  “Thank you, professor, but I have to get back to my research.”

  “Please call me Satish,” he said with an ingratiating grin.

  Anna dislodged herself from his gaze and left him standing outside the lecture hall with a laptop under his arm and a briefcase dangling from his shoulder. Yesterday, she had arrived at the college and settled into a guestroom on campus, where a note from Verma had greeted her, giving his cell number. The college was smaller than she had expected, and the town of Eggleston more provincial. Anna’s last visit to the US had been on a Fulbright, ten years ago, when she did her master’s at Texas A&M in acoustical engineering. The only literature she read was detective novels.


  With Verma’s help, she’d gotten her library card and was assigned a study carrel in the basement of the stacks, a quiet space where she could pretend to read the papers of Dr. Shelton. The librarian had shown her where the boxes of documents lay, in a vault at one end of the basement, six cardboard cartons full of loose-leaf notebooks and typed drafts of translations. These old papers held no more interest for Anna than Verma’s lecture on nuclear deterrence.

  Heading toward the library, she decided she couldn’t face the documents right now. Jet lag made her drowsy, and she felt better being outdoors. It was twenty degrees cooler than Delhi, but the sun was out and the campus had a leafy charm. Turning away from the library, Anna headed down a side street, past a couple of dorms. Students lounged on the grass while others rushed between classes. An elderly couple walked their dachshund, and a red-haired girl went by on a mountain bike. Every hundred feet, attached to lampposts, were emergency call boxes that connected to campus security. It seemed an idyllic place, safe and uncluttered, so far removed from Delhi it could have been another planet. As Anna strolled along the sidewalk, she saw a sign for College Lane ahead of her.

  The houses stood close together, separated by strips of lawn. Several cars were parked by the curb. Nobody was on the street. She walked as if she knew where she was headed, though this was the first time Anna had wandered away from campus. Her eyes picked up the numbers of the homes. 33 College Lane: Afridi had given her the address, and she quickly spotted the split-level house with evergreens growing along the foundations. A carpenter was working on the front door, repairing the hinges, his van parked in the driveway. Anna slowed her steps and glanced at the windows. Nobody was looking out, but she knew that the woman she had come to meet, Daphne Shaw, must be inside.

 

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